


we can be heroes

by allirica



Series: we can be heroes verse [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, BAMF Steve Rogers, BAMF Stiles, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Gun Violence, Hydra (Marvel), Kidnapping, M/M, Marvel Universe, Needles, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Tension, Versatile Steve Rogers, Versatile Stiles Stilinski, Violence, Weapons, realities of dating a superhero
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-05 05:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 84,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18359885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allirica/pseuds/allirica
Summary: sequel to "I Need A Hero", part 2 in the 'we can be heroes' verse.***In which Stiles is dating Captain America, which is great, totally great, except dating a literal superhero comes with a whole host of complications...and his own insecurity about their relationship is just the tip of the iceberg.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/gifts).



There’s someone outside Stiles’s window. 

The quiet, metallic squeak of weight settling on the fire escape outside is enough to jolt him awake, eyes snapping open. He normally sleeps like the dead, but lately...  
Yeah, lately, decent sleep hasn’t actually been happening.

He doesn’t roll over to look out of the window, even though he really, _really_ wants to. Dread coils in his gut at the thought of someone being there, face pressed up against the glass, watching him. 

His apartment is a tiny box of a studio, which doesn’t exactly leave many options to hide, unless he goes for the really obvious places like under his bed or behind the shower curtain in his miniscule bathroom. 

The fire escape is directly outside of the largest window in the apartment, halfway between where Stiles’s couch is squished up against one wall, and where his bed is tucked up against the opposite one. It means that anyone out there has an unobstructed view to the door to the apartment, which leaves running for it out of the question.

He stays completely still, eyes adjusting to the darkness. His hearts pounding, but he tries to focus, listening intently. He can’t hear anything else, even when he holds his breath, trying to eliminate as much background noise as possible. 

Which either means that Stiles is just being paranoid – which, considering his face had been plastered all over the news just three weeks ago, isn’t _entirely_ unlikely; lately, he feels constantly on edge, checking over his shoulder everywhere he goes. 

Or it means that if someone is out there, they’re very well trained.

It isn’t a comforting thought.

Another creak splits the silence. 

This time, it comes from outside the door to the apartment. The building Stiles lives in is pretty old, the floorboards worn; when he’d first moved in, before he’d gotten used to all of the background noise from living in an older build, he’d been woken up most nights by people walking down the hall, the floors groaning with every step.   
But the creaks don’t continue, mapping out a path to another apartment. Whoever’s out there is now trying harder to be quiet, somehow managing to avoid the creaky spots on the floor.

Which is definitely a bad sign.

Slowly, Stiles slides his hand under his pillow, fingers curling around his phone. He has Steve on speed dial; he doesn’t even have to look to make the call. But before he presses his thumb to the lock screen, he remembers that Steve’s off the grid.

_Shit_.

Since the missions classified and Stiles has, well, zero security clearance, Steve hadn’t been able to tell him anything about where SHIELD was sending him. Stiles doesn’t even know where it is or how long Steve will be gone, which…really fucking sucks, but it’s one of the realities of dating a literal superhero. 

Stiles had told Steve that he was all in, so dealing with said sucky realities is something he’ll just have to get used to.

What he _does_ know is that the mission has to be pretty important for Steve to accept it, considering he technically doesn’t work for SHIELD anymore. Since the fall of the first SHIELD, The Avengers have been under their own funding (i.e, Tony Stark’s bankroll), and while Stiles knows that Steve, Natasha, Clint and even Tony occasionally work with the new SHIELD – or, more accurately, with Coulson and the team that operates directly under him – on certain jobs, they’ve all, Steve especially, turned most of their focus to their band of merry superheroes. For Steve to take on a job from SHIELD, it has to be a big deal.

But it means that Stiles has no way to communicate with Steve. 

He could call one of the other Avengers, except he really doesn’t want to. For one, he’s only met them, like, twice since the whole realizing-Steve-is-that-Steve thing. For another, Clint, Natasha and Bucky terrify him. Stark is marginally less intimidating, but the thought of _Tony freaking Stark_ being woken up in his big, fancy penthouse in the middle of the night by a phone call from Stiles, asking for him to come and rescue him from a creaking hallway? 

Yeah, no, there’s no way that’s happening. Stiles has too much dignity and, besides, he’s pretty sure Stark would hang up and go back to sleep anyway.

He has ways of contacting SHIELD, even Coulson directly if needed. For emergencies only, as had been pretty thoroughly stressed to him. 

But he can’t bring himself to make the call. He isn’t even sure if there _is_ someone out there. It’s embarrassingly likely that it’s just his own paranoia getting to him. Dragging out a bunch of SHIELD agents for nothing probably would be something he wouldn’t live down, that’s for sure.

Biting back a curse, Stiles curls his fingers around his phone again, but doesn’t move to unlock it. Instead, he shifts off the bed in one quick move, sliding to the floor. For a second, he stays still, waiting for a gunshot, or for the door to burst open, _anything_ , but when the only sound breaking the silence is just his own quiet breathing, he dares to crawl forward, peering around the end of his bed.

The window that leads out onto the fire escape has blinds, but he hadn’t bothered to close them before going to bed. Between the gaps, he can only see darkness and the faint glimmer of the moon. If someone _is_ out there, it’s too dark for Stiles to see them.

Slowly, he moves to a crouch. 

Another sound cuts through the quiet. This time, it’s a low scraping sound, confusing Stiles for a second until he looks back at the window. He still can’t see anything through the blinds, but another scrape rattles against the frame. 

Stiles doesn’t know much about picking the lock on an old window, but he imagines it would sound a lot like _that_.

“Shit.”

He glances at the door, deciding that making a break for it might just be the best option after all. It beats staying put to see what will happen, at least. Or worse, going to the window to investigate. He’s seen enough crappy horror movies to know _that’s_ a real fucking bad idea.

He starts across his apartment, heart slamming against his ribs, half expecting the window to shatter, or for a bullet to make itself a nice, cozy home in Stiles’s body. 

He makes it halfway before the door slams open.

He reacts on instinct. The only thing within reach is the cell phone in Stiles’s hand and he doesn’t hesitate; he uses all of his strength as he throws it _hard_ , pitching it like it’s a goddamn baseball. 

A surprised, pained shout lets Stiles know that he’s managed to nail the person barrelling into his apartment. 

Light spills in from the hallway and Stiles dives towards it, hoping his hit with the phone has been enough to distract the intruder long enough for him to shove past him. He reaches out, fingers curling around the doorframe, body already tipping to skid to the right towards the staircase, when a hand shoots out.

Fingers bite into his upper arm and Stiles’s heart sinks.

_So fucking close_.

“Get down!” The words are a low, irritated snap as the hand hauls Stiles in and down until he’s ducked halfway to the floor.

The crack of a gun going off splits the air. Stiles flinches, something raining down on him from just above his shoulder, and panic starts to claw its way up his throat.

Another gunshot snaps off, this one quieter, the sound different, but it still makes Stiles’s ears ring. The hand on his arm tugs him towards the doorway.

“Move.”

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. He backs out of the apartment, even as his gaze finds the chunk missing from his door where a bullet had slammed into it.

A few inches south and it would’ve been Stiles’s _skull_ missing a chunk.

Bile rises in his throat. He stumbles as the man next to him releases his arm and moves in front of him, his gun pointed safely at the floor. 

The door to the apartment next to Stiles’s creeps open an inch. His neighbor, Amanda, peers out, brown eyes wide. The man barely spares her a glance, just lifts his hand to flash her a glimpse of his badge.

“SHIELD, ma’am. Get on the floor, away from any windows, and stay there. You’ll be evacuated soon.”

A soft, scared sound escapes Amanda before she slams the door shut again. The man moves forward towards the stairs, pausing to look around the corner before he starts to descend them.

“You’re SHIELD?” Stiles asks, a little suspicious. Paranoia or not, he doesn’t care. Just because the dude has a badge doesn’t mean he’s actually legit. Stiles knows enough about faking IDs to know that much. 

The guy glances at him, taking in Stiles’s expression before he rolls his eyes. “Hunter,” he offers.

He reaches for his waistband and Stiles tenses, but he just tugs another gun from a holster and holds it out.

“Here.”

Stiles eyes it, then takes it, quickly. It’s surprisingly light, but it’s obviously not a normal gun. 

“Non-lethal,” Hunter says. “Not that these bastards don’t deserve the other kind. Just point and shoot. I heard you’re a decent shot.”

Normally, Stiles would agree, but right now, his hands are trembling. Hunter doesn’t seem too concerned about turning his back on an armed and shaking civilian, but Stiles knows enough to keep the gun safely pointed down as he follows Hunter down the first flight of stairs.

Stiles’s heart feels like it’s going to break out from his ribcage, it’s beating so hard. His blood rushes in his ears and when he swallows, he tastes metal. His panicked breaths echo in the narrow stairwell, but he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping up with Hunter’s rapid pace as they descend.

By the time they reach the second floor, he regrets going for a ninth-floor apartment just because it’s cheaper. Clearly, he hadn’t taken into account the practical factors, such as having to run down so many flights of stairs since apparently taking the elevator isn’t the safest option. 

He starts to skid towards the last flight of stairs, his momentum propelling him forward before he registers the fact that Hunter has stopped dead. His arm shoots out, slamming Stiles back and against the wall.

“Son of a bitch,” Hunter mutters under his breath. He lifts one hand to the comms unit in his ear. “Mack, I’ve got more unfriendlies. Have the van waiting, yeah?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, instead leaning quickly around the corner, firing with rapid precision. He ducks back behind the safety of the wall seconds before answering shots ring out.

“How many?” Stiles pants.

“Five.”

There’s an outline of a phone in Hunter’s back pocket. Stiles snatches it out, ignoring Hunter’s raised eyebrows, and drops it to the floor. The annoyed look on Hunter’s face switches to one of sheer incredulity.

“What, breaking your own phone wasn’t enough, mate?” 

Stiles doesn’t answer. He kicks the phone carefully and it skids towards the top step, rattling loudly. Instantly, shots ring out, drawn automatically by the flash of sudden movement and noise. 

Hunter takes advantage of the split second of distraction, five quick, precise shots ringing out. Stiles knows better than to attempt to help. Sure, he knows how to shoot, and, yeah, he considers himself a decent shot. But he has no training in aiming at armed and moving targets. He’s more likely to get in the way, or get shot, than actually help. 

For a split second, there’s just silence, and then Hunter starts to move, barking out a quick command for Stiles to follow.

There’s a black van hugging the curb outside the doors to the building. Hunter pushes Stiles back, keeping him blocked by the wall of the stairwell while he does a quick assessment of the street and nearby buildings. Then he yanks open the door and shoves Stiles forward.

Stiles keeps low as he crosses the short distance to the van. The doors are already open, and he scrambles inside; hands reach out to haul him in. Hunter’s right behind him and the doors slam shut, the vehicle jolting forward sharply enough for Stiles to lose his balance.

He half falls into one of the seats. He curls his fingers around the edge, leaning forward, certain for a second that he’s going to throw up; from panic or adrenaline or both, he isn’t sure. Bile stings his throat, but he manages to swallow it back and takes a deep breath, looking up.

The interior of the van is lit up. Monitors line one wall. A grate separates the front seats from the back, so Stiles can’t see the driver, but besides Hunter and himself, there’s another man and a blonde woman hunched in the small space.

“Bloody _hell_ ,” Hunter mutters. His accent is English, Stiles realizes belatedly. 

“You were hit,” the woman says, leaning forward with some gauze. “You’re bleeding.”

Hunter lifts his hand to his eyebrow, swiping at the blood there. He snorts. “Wasn’t a bullet, it was him.” He nods towards Stiles. At the twin raised eyebrows he receives from the other agents, he adds, “He beamed me with a fucking mobile phone.”

Stiles watches in mute disbelief as the woman presses her lips together, eyes lighting up with amusement. The other man isn’t as polite, openly laughing.

“It’s not funny!” Hunter insists. “It bloody hurt!”

“I’m not laughing,” the blonde says, lifting her hands, even as a grin tugs at her lips.

“I wasn’t expecting it, okay? I hear some bastard trying to get in through the window, so I bust in and the kid just went for me.”

“You broke into my apartment,” Stiles manages to protest. “What the hell was I supposed to do?”

“Not aim at the guy trying to protect you, that’s what!”

“I didn’t _know_ you weren’t trying to kill me,” he shoots back. “I was trying to defend myself.”

Hunter eyes him but doesn’t respond. The gun he’d given Stiles is on the floor and he wordlessly picks it up, tucking it back into his holster. Stiles keeps his gaze on the floor, trying to focus past the adrenaline still shooting through his veins.

“And I’m not a kid,” he adds after a moment. “I’m twenty-five.”

The blonde leans forward. “Stiles, I’m Agent Morse, and this is Agent MacKenzie. We’re going to -.”

“Are they dead?” Stiles interrupts, thinking of the bodies they’d stepped over to get out of the building.

“I told you, mate. Non-lethal.” Hunter replies. “We call them ICERS. They sting, sure, but those guys will just have a nice, long nap and wake up with a bruise. That’s all.”

“Why did they want me?” he asks. “To kidnap me? Kill me?”

“We don’t know,” Agent Morse says. “But like Hunter said, those guys are alive. Another team is already there now, picking them up. They’ll be questioned. We’ll find out who they are, who sent them, and why they targeted you.”

But Stiles already knows why they’d _targeted_ him. He doesn’t know if they’d planned to kidnap him or kill him, but he knows they’d only wanted him because of his now public relationship with Captain America.

He closes his eyes, leaning his head back. “What now?”

Hunter and Morse share a glance before she replies. 

“We’re en route to our base. You’ll be safe there.” 

That isn’t what Stiles had meant. 

He already knows he won’t be able to go back to his apartment. He’s a sitting duck there now. Even with the agents SHIELD has clearly stationed to protect him, all it takes is one talented sniper, or one neat little bomb, and no more Stiles. He can’t go back to his home.

If his address is now widely known, so will other details about him, like where he goes to school, where he works. Will he even be able to go back to them?

He takes a deep breath. “I need to speak to Steve.”

“Coulson will contact him,” Morse says. After a moment, she reaches out, briefly squeezing his elbow. “It’s okay, Stiles. You’re safe.”

Stiles doesn’t reply. He gazes at the ceiling of the van as it cuts through traffic, letting the thrum of the engine slowly calm him down. 

***

He isn’t allowed to know how to get into the base. He isn’t even allowed to know where it even is.

He knows they’ve done an extensive background check on him – hell, they’d probably done it the day he and Steve had met, months ago – and it’s blatantly obvious that Stiles can’t fight his way out of a paper bag. He’s not a double agent, or someone who would ever betray them. 

So he allows the lack of trust to sting for a moment before logic kicks in.

SHIELD is an organization. Historically, Stiles hasn’t exactly done well with authority, but in SHIELD’s case, he mostly agrees with what they do. After all, protecting people is their priority, even if all the bureaucracy and secrecy is frustrating. And the fact is, Stiles has no security clearance, and there are rules to be followed.

Not to mention that they’ll want to limit the knowledge Stiles has of them, in case he’s ever taken and tortured for information. It makes sense in that regard to keep him in the dark as much as possible.

It’s almost alarming how he’s getting used to the casual possibility of being tortured someday.

Still, Stiles finds himself focusing as he’s marched, blindfolded, through the base. He’s been told, frequently, that he can be cynical, but he’d rather be distrustful than regret showing any trust later. So he counts his steps, counts the left and right turns they take, counts how many flights of stairs they descend. He has no idea what his surrounds look like, but at least he has a map of the path to the exit in mind. 

He’s under no illusion that he’d actually be able to escape if he ever needed to, but just having the knowledge in mind is enough for him to feel a little more secure.

The blindfold finally comes off. The room he’s in is well lit and for a second, he has to squint as his eyes adjust, the light too intense. He blinks a couple of times before glancing around.

The room is small and bland. Concrete walls, concrete floor, concrete ceiling. There’s a steel door behind Stiles and a mirror to his right. He’s willing to bet what scant savings he has that it’s two way, though whether or not someone is standing on the other side, watching, he has no clue. The room is sparsely furnished, just a small, discreet camera in one corner of the ceiling and a table in the centre, one chair on either side of it. There’s a ring hooked into the table for handcuffs. 

An agent is standing by one of the chairs. Stiles doesn’t recognize him, but he looks as bland as the walls around them, with thinning brown hair, wiry glasses, and dressed in a simple black suit. 

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Stiles offers after a moment. “I like your decorating style. All feng shui and shit.”

The agent doesn’t smile, but his expression isn’t stern or intimidating. He gestures to the chair opposite him as he sits down. “Mr Stilinski, I’m Agent Smith -.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Stiles blurts.

Agent Smith’s mouth does twitch then, just slightly. “Have you been to medical?”

Stiles bites back a bubble of laughter, still in disbelief at the guy’s name. He shakes his head as he sits down. “They offered, but I said no. I’m fine. Not a scratch on me, Scout’s Honor.” 

“You were never a Scout.”

“Well, no, they wouldn’t accept me,” Stiles admits. “Too troublesome apparently.”

“Troublesome is one description,” Smith replies. 

“There’s a file on me, isn’t there?” he says, grinning slightly. “Dating Captain America warrants my own file. Neat. C’mon, give me the details. How insulting is it? Does it mention that speeding ticket? Because that wasn’t actually my fault, my buddy Scott -.”

“Mr Stilinski,” Agent Smith cuts him off, leaning forward. “There’s no reason to be nervous. You’re not in trouble, you understand that?”

Stiles shrugs slightly. “Normally when I’m sat alone in front of an extra from _Men in Black_ , it’s because I’m in some kind of trouble.”

Now Smith is _definitely_ smiling. It doesn’t quite sit right, not quite natural, but Stiles gets that the guy is trying to help him feel at ease and appreciates it. 

“How often does that happen?”

“Couple of times when I was a kid. My best friend’s dad is an FBI agent and a massive dick. Liked to try and intimidate me when he thought I was getting Scott into trouble.”

Smith leans back again, features settling back into that bland expression as he gets to business. “What happened tonight is a serious matter.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Stiles replies. “Someone shot at me.”

It still hasn’t quite sunk in. He can still see that hole in his door, the chewed up paint and wood making him shudder as he thinks of how easily it could be fragments of his skull decorating his carpet instead of wood splinters. 

Someone had shot at him. They’d sent more than one, a whole team to try and _kill him_ , and it just doesn’t feel real. His ears are still ringing slightly, probably more from lingering shock than from the burst of gunfire earlier, and his arm throbs slightly where Hunter had yanked him down, saving him from losing a significant portion of his brain.

Yet it feels too surreal. Like he’s dreaming and any second now, he’ll wake up secure in his own bed, shaking off the cold fingers of a shitty nightmare.

“We have them in custody,” Smith assures him. “We’ll find out who they work for and what their motive is. But I think it’s safe to assume that they targeted you -.”

“Because of Steve,” Stiles finishes flatly, suddenly feeling just so incredibly _tired_.

The agent nods. “Yes,” he says, not even bothering to sugar coat it. Stiles appreciates that, too. He always prefers honesty to the soft touch, even if the reality of the situation sucks. 

“So what now?” he asks. 

“I want to get a record of what happened in your own words,” Smith replies. “It won’t take long, I assure you. Then you’ll be given somewhere secure to stay so you can get some rest. It’s been a long night for you, I bet.”

“What about my stuff?” Stiles asks.

“Your apartment is a crime scene right now,” Smith points out, again not softening it. “But once the stuff can be removed, someone will be sent to collect it all for you.”

Stiles nods. He wants to drop his head against the table, the beginnings of a migraine prickling behind his eyes. His phone is still in the apartment, probably broken after being introduced pretty forcefully to Hunter’s face, so he can’t contact Scott or his dad, or his work. His laptop and all of his school stuff are there too, right when he’s in the middle of working on a paper, and frustration begins to bubble up in his chest, threatening to explode from his throat.

He swallows it back, though. It’s not Agent Smith’s fault. Hell, he’d probably been woken up in the middle of the night too, hauled away from his bed to come and deal with this whole situation. 

So Stiles bites back the torrent of anger and panic still scratching in his chest and answers all of Smith’s questions, giving a full report of what had happened. Some of the details are a little hazy, since he’d been half asleep to start with, but laying it all out, he realizes just how quickly it had gone down. Fuck, if Hunter hadn’t been there, Stiles would be nothing more than a wannabe Halloween decoration on his apartment floor right now.

When it’s done, Agent Smith thanks him and leaves the room. It’s Morse who gestures Stiles out into the corridor. It’s just as bleak as the room he’s just left, long and narrow, all grey concrete and harsh lights tracking a path down to what looks like elevator doors. 

“Real cozy place, huh?” Stiles says. “Couple of pillows, maybe a nice throw, and this place could be on the cover of _Good Housekeeping_.”

Agent Morse’s mouth curves up. “You get used to it.”

“Sure,” Stiles agrees. “I bet. But seriously, they could at least try and make it a little less _Area 51_. It’s just too cliché. A secret government base doesn’t actually have to _look_ like crap, you know.”

Morse fixes him with an unfathomable look. “It isn’t public knowledge that the government is backing us again.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not an idiot. SHIELD isn’t exactly being secretive anymore, since they’re back to clearing up the mess from all the big hero showdowns and all. And I’ve seen the quinjets. I’ve _been_ in one. I’ve seen all the teams that tackled the mess in Central Park after that lizard thing squared up to Thor. That kinda staffing and that kinda technology requires funding and a lot of it. So, the government secretly backs SHIELD again, meaning they get to have more control in how its run, not to mention having an organisation there to clean up after the superheroes beat down some wannabe supervillain, while SHIELD still gets to operate a little more independently than they did when they reported directly to a council. Win-win.” Stiles shifts his weight slightly and shrugs. “Plus I’ve read the conspiracy sites.”

Morse laughs. “Do you have a tin foil hat, too?”

“I don’t read the bullshit stuff,” Stiles replies, a little defensive. “Just the good ones. The ones that disappear pretty quickly. I’m guessing ‘cause they got too close, hit on something real, and got recruited. Or shut down.”

Her mouth twitches slightly. “Remind me to introduce you to a friend of mine someday. You’ll like her.” Then she turns, starting to walk down the corridor.

Stiles quickly catches up, falling into step next to her. “Where are we going?”

“A room’s been allocated for you,” she says.

He glances around at the bland walls. On one, the SHIELD logo has been painted, dominating most of the grey space. 

“Subtle,” he remarks as they pass it, then asks, “I’m staying _here_?”

“Just for a little while,” she assures him. “Until Captain Rogers gets back. What happens then is up to you guys.”

Stiles had kinda been hoping that Steve would be back soon, but he feels silly and a little selfish for that. Sure, the night has been all round shitty, not to mention pants wettingly scary, but he isn’t hurt. He’s safe. And he’ll be safe until Steve finishes his operation. 

He feels more than a little glum, though. SHIELD have had to make arrangements, bring him to their base and sort out a freaking room for him, just to protect him because he can’t take care of himself. He feels like a burden. More than that, though, he feels _weak_ , and frustration stings his throat again.

Morse doesn’t blindfold him. Clearly, he’s allowed to see this part of the base, at least. Not that there’s much _to_ see. Just corridors that look almost identical, lined with doors. Stiles has no idea where the exit is from here, or where they even are, so it’s not like he poses much of a threat.

Plus, he’s not exactly itching to leave anyway. Sure, the place isn’t cozy or welcoming, and he wishes that he at least had Scott with him, but he’s safe here.

They stop outside a simple white door. “This is you,” Morse says. “Some stuff has been put in there for you. Clothes, toiletries, that kind of thing. And we’ll get your own stuff to you when we can.”

Stiles nods, resting a hand on the door handle, but he doesn’t open it just yet. “What’s your name?” he blurts.

She looks at him, then smiles. “Bobbi.” 

“Thank you, Bobbi.”

Her smile widens a little, softens. “Get some rest, Stiles.”

He watches her disappear down the corridor, then opens the door, stepping into his quarters.

The room is small. Clearly, the person who designed this place has a pretty limited vision when it comes to décor; concrete floor, brick walls, impersonal and blander than soggy cornflakes. 

But the lights in this room are softer, warmer somehow, emitting a soothing golden glow rather than the cold, harsh lights that lined the corridors. It makes the room feel less imposing and a little more welcoming. The bed is a single, the frame simple but made from wood, and there’s a nightstand with a lamp on it. There’s a desk and a comfy, cushioned chair tucked against the wall behind the door, an armchair nestled in one corner, and a small cabinet for clothes tucked discreetly in the other; there’s even a little shelf clustered with a variety of books and next to it, a mirror.

Next to the corner with the armchair there’s a door leading to a tiny bathroom. But the little touches, like the softer lighting, turn the room from something that could resemble an interrogation chamber into a place that’s actually pretty similar to a lot of the shitty, overpriced student apartments in New York. 

At least this place doesn’t have an excruciating walk up.

That he’s aware of, anyway.

Fuck, he really hopes the place is kitted out with decent elevators. 

The room is actually a little nicer than his own apartment, if anything because there isn’t mould in the bathroom or a crack in the wall. And no drafty windows, either. No windows at all, actually, but the lighting helps to soothe some of the instinctual discomfort at that. 

Still, Stiles does a quick sweep for cameras, just in case SHIELD are a little too comfortable with spying – which, from what he’s read about the released files from a long while back when SHIELD fell, they definitely _are_. Then he sits down on the bed, dislodging the pile of stuff that’s been left there for him.

Some clothes to sleep in – plain cotton bottoms and a grey shirt – and more clothes for the day, simple sweats and lounge wear. At least there’s boxers. And socks; this place is fucking freezing. There’s a brand new toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, even stuff for shaving and grooming. 

Still, he wishes he had a phone. Or even a games console, just for something to do.

He ends up taking a shower. He’s a little sweaty from earlier – both from running down several flights of stairs and from the sheer stress of the whole ordeal – and it feels good to wash it off, like cleaning the whole horrible night from his skin. He wishes he could scrub it as easily from his memory.

The water is hot – instantly, no waiting, shivering under icy droplets, until it warms up like his own shower – and it soothes his tired body. He lingers for longer than he usually would, washing again just to do something, since he knows sleep won’t come easily.

Eventually, he dries off and tugs on the sleep clothes they’d given him. They’re soft and pretty comfortable, at least. They even fit perfectly, which is…a little creepy.

How detailed _is_ the file on him? 

The thought of some poor, random agent – highly trained to protect and serve their country – being given the job to look through his file to find out his exact measurements so they can find some clothes for him has a wild bubble of laughter exploding in Stiles’s throat.

He sinks down onto the bed, an edge of hysteria cutting into his laughter, and he buries his head in his hands, shaking with each wobbling, wheezing gasp that escapes him. 

Finally, it dies off in his chest, and he chokes in a breath before falling onto his back, head settling on the pillow. He doesn’t bother to wriggle underneath the blanket or turn the light off. 

Instead, he stares at the ceiling and counts each and every bubble in the otherwise smooth concrete, because it’s better than thinking about anything else right now.


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up.

He hadn’t even been aware of falling asleep. He thinks that he had dreams, but he doesn’t remember them; just a hazy, strange night of tossing and turning, never quite fully asleep, but not really awake, either. But his heart isn’t pounding, and he doesn’t have a knot of anxiety in his gut, so he’s pretty sure he didn’t have a nightmare.

The room is still lit by the light he hadn’t switched off. Without any windows or clocks, he has no idea what time it is; his natural rhythm has been thrown off, so it could be morning, or afternoon, or, hell, even night still. 

It’s disorientating, to say the least.

For a few minutes, he just lies there, unsure what he’s supposed to do. He’s not exactly a prisoner here, so it’s not like he’s under lockdown, but he’s also pretty sure he’s not welcome to just go wandering around the base, either.

But they didn’t exactly give him instructions, or even guidance on what he could do or where he could go, so if he does something he’s not supposed to, that’s basically on them.

“Fuck it,” he says, finally heaving himself up.

He uses the bathroom and brushes his teeth, splashing cold water on his face. He changes into a pair of black sweatpants, a white shirt and a set of socks. 

He hadn’t been wearing any shoes, he realizes belatedly. No wonder his feet ache a little, after running barefoot on cold, hard floors and down several flights of steep stairs.   
There aren’t any shoes in the handy little pile of stuff he’d been given, so he just shrugs. Socks are better than nothing, at least.

The corridor outside his room is empty. He glances both ways before heading the same way he’d arrived earlier, when Bobbi had shown him to his quarters. He turns left at the end of the corridor, pretty sure he’d seen an elevator along here somewhere, and maybe that will give him some clue of where he can find food. Or even just some human company would be good.

Though, generally, he prefers food.

He spots the elevator doors at the end of the corridor, but an open door to his right grabs his attention a second later. He peers inside. 

It looks almost like a common room. There’s a little kitchenette, equipped only with a microwave and stove, against the back wall, some snack machines lining the other, and most of the space is taken up by some squishy couches, tables, and a TV. 

It’s a welcome relief from the serious, imposing design of the rest of the base. Here is obviously something more casual, a place for agents to kick back and relax, to hang out and eat or whatever.

He makes a beeline for the snack machines. The one with coffee practically _sings_ to him, like it’s a gift from heaven itself, but his nerves are jumpy enough right now without adding caffeine to the mix, and his belly is starting to grumble pretty insistently.

He stops in front of one of the machines, looking over the options before glancing at the little screen. Letters scroll across it, advising him on how to pay, and he pulls an incredulous face.

“Fuckin’ cheapskates,” he mutters. “Staff risk their lives as their daily job and the bosses still won’t spring for free snack machines.” 

A laugh makes him jump slightly and he turns as a woman with short, dark curly hair walks into the room. She’s dressed in pyjamas – pink cotton pants and a _NASA_ shirt splattered with what looks like pizza stains – and she looks vaguely familiar. 

“Trust me, we’ve pointed that out, plenty of times. No luck.” She says. “Want some help?”

“Uh,” he starts to say. He hasn’t got any cash on him, but he’d feel guilty owing money to a stranger. “Thanks, but…”

He trails off when she stops in front of the machine and reaches out, splaying her fingers just an inch away from the glass. Her eyes go sharp with concentration and a second later, there’s a quiet rumble as the machine starts to shake.

Stiles jumps back, startled, and watches in awe as snacks tumble out of the little spirals keeping them back, dropping into the hatch at the bottom. The woman drops her hand, shaking it out slightly with a grin.

“Learned that one a while back,” she says. “Don’t tell Coulson.”

“Holy shit,” Stiles says. Now he knows why he recognizes her; she’d been plastered all over the news a while back, before it had been confirmed that she’d been reinstated as a SHIELD operative. “You’re Quake.”

Her mouth tips up slightly. “Usually I go by Daisy,” she replies dryly, leaning her shoulder casually against the machine. “You’re Stiles.”

Stiles is dating a superhero. He’s met the _Hulk_. His life has been pretty fucking weird lately, but nothing feels stranger than right now, with _Quake_ , an actual goddamn legend, knowing who he is. 

“That’s me,” he offers. 

She seems to hesitate for a second, then asks, “This is totally rude, but what’s he like?”

“Who?”

One eyebrow arches. “Your boyfriend. Captain America. I mean, he’s – he’s _Captain America_.” She looks more than a little awestruck.

Stiles shifts uncomfortably. He’d been excited to meet _her_ , wanting to ask a million questions about her powers, wanting to blurt out that he thinks she’s freaking awesome, and here she is, thrilled to talk to someone who knows Captain America.

Who’s _dating_ Captain America.

It’s bizarre. It’s surreal.

It’s…

It’s Stiles’s life now. 

“Uh…I mean, I don’t really see it as I’m dating Captain America. I’m dating Steve. And Steve is…” he pauses, shrugging slightly. “Steve is a dork. I love him.” He doesn’t want to go too into depth about their relationship – legend or not, she’s still a stranger, and it’s weird.

Her smile has shifted into an odd look. She studies him for a moment. “You can’t really separate them like that forever,” she says finally, voice quieter, softer. “Steve is still Captain America. Trust me, I know a little something about trying to keep identities separate. It doesn’t work.”

It stings at the part of Stiles that has, admittedly, been trying to bury his head in the sand. But he knows who Steve is, what he is, and everything that comes with that. Hell, after last night, he knows that a lot more thoroughly than he’d prefer.

But when it comes down to it, Steve is worth it. 

Plus, Stiles is pretty fucking stubborn, he can admit that. He’s not gonna walk away from the best damn thing in his life just because of some trouble.

Even if that trouble is kinda terrifyingly lethal.

“Well, thanks for the unsolicited advice,” he replies eventually, bending to grab a few packets from the bottom of the machine. The door swings shut with a loud, metallic rattle as he straightens again. “And thanks for the snacks. Saves me shaking the damn thing.”

“You do that often?” she asks, smiling slightly.

“I plead the fifth.”

She laughs outright at that. Stiles moves to sit on one of the squishy couches, settling into it as he tears open a packet of chips. Daisy sits next to him, peeling open a candy bar as she switches on the TV.

A news anchor fills the screen and she pulls a face, switching it over to a channel playing cartoons.

That instantly gives Stiles some indication of what time it is. Saturday – because when he was a kid, before he had to worry about college and exams and papers, he’d ritually woken up before dawn on a Saturday morning to watch cartoons – and pretty early, probably between six and eight in the morning. He hadn’t slept for long at all, then. 

“I don’t suppose you can lend me a phone?” Stiles ventures. “I broke mine on Hunter’s face.”

She grins at that. “I heard,” she says, then sobers slightly before adding, “Sorry. I can’t. I know you want to contact your friends, or your dad, but we can’t risk any information going out on where you might be. Your safety would be compromised.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Stiles replies. “I’m not going to post a status on Facebook telling everyone that I’m at a SHIELD base. Besides, I don’t even know where this base is.”

“I know,” she says. “But we have to be cautious. Trust me, no one wants to be responsible for Captain America’s boyfriend kicking the bucket.” 

“But Scott, my dad…all of my friends, are they safe?” Stiles asks, desperation edging into his tone.

Her expression softens slightly. “They are,” she promises. “We’ve got a secure, round the clock protection detail on all of them. They’re completely safe. And they know _you’re_ safe, don’t worry.”

Stiles hadn’t even thought about that, but, fuck, yeah, of course. News of a shooting going on in his apartment building would’ve reached the people he cares about pretty quickly. The thought of them believing that he’d been killed makes him feel simultaneously sick, but incredibly relieved and grateful that SHIELD contacted them and told them he’s alive. 

“Can I speak to them?” he asks. “On a secure line or something?”

There’s empathy in her dark eyes as she considers. “I’ll speak to Coulson,” she finally replies.

It’s not exactly a promise, but it’s better than nothing. 

“Thanks,” he says, crunching down on a Dorito in an effort to ignore the frustration building in his chest.

***

Staying at the base isn’t so bad.

Of course, he’s restricted to the floor his room is on, and the floor where there’s a communal eating area, complete with a small kitchenette. 

Once, out of curiosity, he’d tried pressing the button for one of the other floors, wondering what would happen.

Turns out, what happens is a very loud, very _angry_ sounding alarm, accompanied by flashing red lights. Stiles is pretty sure Coulson had kept the alarm going in the elevator for a few minutes longer than he would otherwise just to teach him a lesson. He doesn’t know a lot about the guy – or, well, _anything_ about him – but he definitely wouldn’t put it past him. 

But there are generally people coming and going during the day and especially in the evenings. He meets some of the other agents, spends ages talking to Fitz and Simmons about the biosynthesis of lipids, and gets his ass thoroughly kicked at MarioKart by Mack and Bobbi. 

He meets Agent May, who, quite frankly, rivals Bucky Barnes when it comes to effortless intimidation.

The stuff from his apartment is delivered to him on his third day at the base. He doesn’t have a whole lot of stuff, but it’s still a lot more than is suitable for one room, so most of it ends up crammed against one wall. 

He’s finally allowed his laptop, under strict conditions. He’s not allowed to use his social media and he’s not allowed to contact anyone. The only exception to that is a quick email he’s allowed to send to his professors, letting them know why he’s absent. 

Maybe SHIELD pulls some strings, maybe his professors don’t want to get on the wrong side of a superhero’s boyfriend, Stiles doesn’t know, but the response is a lot politer than he’d expected. They send him work to do so he’s not totally behind when(ever) he does return to school, but he’s painfully aware that he’s still going to have to work hard to fill in any gaps from missing both classes and his group study sessions.

He’s allowed to call work, too, letting them know about his absence. When his boss agrees easily, without any foul muttering, Stiles knows that SHIELD definitely had to be involved, because Harris is usually a massive dick, especially to Stiles.

Daisy does pull through for him, too. He’s allowed to call both his dad and Scott on a secure line. 

His conversation with his dad is brief and stilted, but Stiles can hear the relief in the other man’s voice when he talks. He’d been told that Stiles is safe, of course, but being informed about it and hearing Stiles’s voice for himself are two very different things.

Stiles is a little guilty to admit that he’s been avoiding his dad a little. 

His dad had known that he was in a relationship, sure, but not with Captain America. To be fair, though, neither had Stiles. And neither did the majority of the rest of the world.   
Steve had, apparently, been meticulous in making sure they were discreet, wanting to keep Stiles away from the whole publicity and danger factor for as long as possible. They’d spent most of their time in Stiles’s apartment, out of view, and the few times they did go out for dates in public, Steve had been dressed down, so simply but so effectively disguised in a cap and glasses. 

(Stiles had been pretty disappointed to discover the glasses weren’t needed. He had a thing for Steve in those glasses.)

Between that and SHIELD pulling some strings, making sure both men went unrecognized and, more importantly, were protected when they went out (which still creeps Stiles out a little, now he realizes that people had been there, probably listening on their dates), their relationship had been pretty safely hidden.

Until three weeks ago.

After a battle – the same battle in which Stiles had discovered his boyfriend is a literal superhero – he’d ended up in Steve’s arms, right in the middle of a half-destroyed street. No one had been on the street itself, SHIELD having cleared it, but a news helicopter up high had captured the moment.

Instantly, Stiles’s face had been everywhere.

The sudden shift in his life, the immediate, intense focus that was pinned on him, had been hard to handle. An official statement was released, confirming the relationship and requesting peace and privacy. 

Stiles’s phone had lit up with numerous calls. His dad was the most insistent. 

Stiles feels bad for dodging the calls and texts. It’s a dick move, he knows that. But he doesn’t know how he’s going to handle this whole dating-Steve-Rogers thing with his dad. It isn’t like his dad doesn’t _like_ superheroes, exactly, but he’s a cop, one who’s dedicated basically his whole life to the whole serve and protect ideal. So superheroes, vigilantes, taking the law into their own hands…it can be frustrating for his dad, Stiles knows that.

Especially since he’d been injured in the Battle of New York.

He’s not one of the ones who blames the superheroes for the destruction. After all, they’d been defending the world and had stopped the aliens that actually _were_ trying to destroy the city. But Stiles knows there must be a little resentment, a little discomfort with superheroes, a harsh reminder of the day that changed his dad’s life so sharply.

So their conversation is short and awkward. His dad doesn’t sound happy, but he is glad Stiles is okay, and he makes him promise, three times, that he will stay safe. It seems like overkill but, given Stiles’s history of not exactly making the best decisions in terms of personal safety, he can’t really complain. He knows his dad wants to say more, wants to dive right into the conversation they’re avoiding, but they’re both aware they can’t. For one, they have to keep the call short, and for another, the line is definitely being monitored, just to ensure Stiles doesn’t accidentally let slip anything about his location (not that he actually _knows_ anything about his location). It’s not exactly ideal circumstances for a family discussion.

His call with Scott is equally short, but he feels a lot more at ease. Scott’s voice is scratchy; he hasn’t been sleeping, probably worried, and it makes Stiles’s heart ache. It’s only been a few days since he saw his best friend, but he misses him. He could really use one of Scott’s hugs right now, the full bodied one where his arms just encase Stiles, warm and comforting.

To avoid cabin fever, he spends most of his days working, his attention focused intently on his textbooks and laptop. The rest of the time, he hangs out in the communal room, even when it’s empty. It makes him feel a little less hemmed in, and when there are other people in there, it can actually be fun. A little weird, kicking it with a bunch of trained spies, but fun. 

Still.

He misses his normal life.

He misses Scott.

He misses _Steve_.

***

It’s a full eight days before Steve returns.

Stiles is in the communal room, legs hanging over the back of the couch, head dangling as he reads upside down. He hasn’t been sleeping well – the pillow in his room isn’t _his_ pillow, which makes sleeping difficult enough, not to mention the fact that he doesn’t exactly feel completely at ease in his surroundings – and he’s drowsy, eyes tracking lazily over the words. He doesn’t even know _what_ he’s reading. Hardy, maybe.

He never did like Hardy.

He’s sleepy enough that it takes him a moment to register the sound of Steve’s voice in the corridor. When realization _does_ spike through him, Steve’s already walking into the room, Agent Smith with him. Stiles scrambles clumsily to his feet, falling over his own legs for a moment before he’s finally the right way up, feet on solid ground, feeling a little dizzy as the blood rushes from his head.

Steve’s there a second later, wrapping him in a hug so wonderful that suddenly, despite how shitty the last week has been, makes everything feel _right_.

“Hey,” Stiles murmurs. “I missed you.”

Steve pulls back, looking down at him. He’s only a couple of inches taller than Stiles, but Stiles kinda likes it. He’s still in his uniform, the dark navy one that’s better suited to clandestine operations, his blonde hair is a little dishevelled, and he looks tired.

The mission must have been particularly rough, because Steve rarely ever looks exhausted. It’s probably due to the serum, keeping him in peak physical condition (and it really, _really_ is peak, Stiles is pleased to know), although Stiles wouldn’t put it past the man to be stubborn enough to conquer the need for sleep through sheer force of will alone.

Steve’s hand finds Stiles’s jaw. “Are you okay?”

“Totally fine, I promise,” he replies. “Getting a little cabin fever, but I’m good. Did you come straight here?” 

“I wanted to see you.”

Stiles’s heart does a goofy little flutter at that. Fuck, how does Steve manage to turn him into literally _every_ cheesy Hallmark cliché, just with his smile?

“It could have waited until you’d…I dunno, debriefed or whatever you have to do,” he says dryly. “Another couple of hours wouldn’t have made much difference.”

Instead of smiling, Steve’s face tightens a little. “I would have come back straight away if I’d been told what happened.”

Stiles blinks. “I thought you _were_ told.”

Steve’s gaze swings to Agent Smith. His expression is expectant. It’s not even _intimidating_ , but the guy shifts slightly on his feet all the same.

“It was decided that it would be best to wait,” he says, tone carefully bland. “Since Mr Stilinski wasn’t harmed, we thought it wasn’t worth pulling you away from your operation.”

“Wasn’t worth,” Steve repeats flatly. His jaw is tight. “I think I need to have a word with Coulson.”

Stiles slides his hand into Steve’s. “I’m glad you didn’t come back straight away,” he says honestly. “I mean…I missed you, sure. I missed you a _lot_. But I’m fine. And safe. I would have felt shitty if you left an important job just to come and see me.” He pauses, then grins as he adds, “Besides, I met Quake. That alone is worth nearly getting shot.”

“That’s not funny, Stiles,” Steve says, but his mouth is tugging into a familiar, fondly exasperated smile.

“Who says I’m joking? Have you _met_ her? She quaked me some free snacks.”

“Should I be jealous?” Steve teases, voice soft. He keeps his gaze on Stiles, like he’s assuring himself that Stiles really is completely fine.

Stiles snorts, pressing a quick kiss to Steve’s mouth, even though there’s a SHIELD agent stood literally just a couple of feet away from them. “Go shower,” he says. “No offence, but you kinda stink. I’ll be right here.”

Steve smiles, presses his gloved fingers briefly, gently to Stiles’s jaw, and then gives Smith a single nod, following him out of the room.

Stiles sinks back down onto the couch. Somehow, he feels even more impatient now, just because he knows Steve is actually here, in the same building. Whenever Steve is done doing whatever it is he has to do, hopefully Stiles will finally be able to leave the base.

What happens after that, though, he has no freaking idea.

***

“My place,” Steve says.

Just two words, thrown out there like they’re a whole argument. His jaw is set, his posture straight, arms folded across his chest. He’s in full on stubborn mode. Stiles can see why Erskine had chosen Steve all those decades ago; he can see what the scientist saw, that glint in Steve’s eye, the determination on his face.

Just looking at him, Stiles is certain Steve could go up against the whole world if he had reason to. He’s stubborn enough to. He’s determined enough to. Most importantly, he _cares_ enough to. 

Stiles is maybe a bigger cliché than he thinks, because being the focus of that amount of care…it makes him want to melt into a little happy puddle of besotted goo on the floor.

“Your place is secure, yes,” Coulson allows calmly. “But long term -.” He cuts off, gaze swinging to Stiles. 

Steve raises his eyebrow at Stiles’s laughter. He tries to muffle it into his sleeve, but it’s too late. The little cluster of people in Coulson’s office are all staring at him. 

“It’s just…” he coughs a little, trying not to laugh again. “Of all the ways to ask me to move in with you, Steve, this really isn’t the most romantic.”

And there’s that hint of color on Steve’s cheeks, a slightly embarrassed, mostly shy look on his face as he ducks his head slightly.

“That’s not what I…” he stops, tries again. “I mean, not that I don’t…I would love it if you…”

Stiles takes pity, cutting him off. “Steve, baby. I’m teasing.”

“But I mean it,” Steve insists. “I -.”

Coulson clears his throat, interrupting Steve again. “Captain, I agree that short term, your apartment is ideal. No one could protect him better than you. But long term? If you have to leave, then Stiles is at risk. Even with agents stationed as his bodyguards. Last week proved that.” 

“Then I won’t go on any missions,” Steve challenges.

Coulson’s expression pinches and he opens his mouth to reply, but it’s Stiles’s own, quiet voice that gets Steve’s attention.

“Forever?”

Steve’s arms drop to his sides. “Stiles -.”

“Even if we find out who sent those guys – which is looking more and more unlikely, by the way, since Bobbi hasn’t made any progress with them – and you stop that particular threat, it doesn’t mean I’m safe. There will always be someone looking to hurt me to get to you. It’d be naïve to think otherwise. You can’t just quit helping SHIELD for good. You know that, Steve. Not to mention The Avengers. If there’s a threat, you’ll be needed. You can’t just…babysit me twenty four seven. Honestly, I wouldn’t _want_ you to. You’re my boyfriend, Steve, not my bodyguard.”

Steve pushes out a breath. He doesn’t look happy, exactly, but there’s at least reluctant agreement in his eyes. “Then where?” he asks Coulson.

Coulson’s mouth twitches up at the corners. “I happen to know someone with a lot of extra room. Somewhere that’s probably even more secure than here.”

To Stiles’s surprise, Steve’s expression clears at that. He nods. “Stark probably wouldn’t mind.”

Alarm pulses through Stiles. “Woah, woah, wait a second. Stark? As in, _Tony Stark_? His big, fuck-off, _blatantly_ phallic tower. You want me to stay _there_?”

Steve’s hiding a grin at Stiles’s description of Stark Tower, swiping a hand across his mouth as he clears his throat. “Coulson’s right. It’s one of the safest places in the city.”

“Safe,” Stiles repeats. “The same tower that got practically totalled during the battle of New York. Like, a demolition ball couldn’t have done as good a job as Hulk, or Loki, or whoever, did to that place. Totally safe. Not to mention the guy who lives there, while a decent guy, and kind of an awesome superhero and all, also has a nasty habit of making completely stupid decisions that go against all logic and thought of self-preservation, like, say, _inviting a terrorist cell to blow up his home with him still in it_?”

“I think he and Stark will get along great,” Coulson says mildly.

Steve ignores that. “Stiles,” he says. “It really is completely safe. Tony lives there. His suits are there. His most important tech is all there. And the lower floors are full of SI personnel most of the time. _Nowhere_ could be safer or more secure. Between Tony and his technology, the tower is a fortress. I know, because he went through the security with me a while ago, trying to prove to me that it’s more reliable than SHIELD’s.” 

“Is it?” Stiles asks.

“No,” Coulson says.

“Yes,” Steve counters evenly. “You’ll be safe.”

Stiles sighs. “It’s not really the safety thing that bothers me. I just…I don’t know the place. I don’t know Stark. I mean, he’s _Tony Stark_.”

“You’ll probably barely even see him,” Steve says. “He has his own floor. And he spends most of his time either in his workshop or dealing with company matters. You won’t be a bother. He’ll probably forget you’re even in the building.”

“Well, that’s flattering,” Stiles drawls.

“And even if you _did_ bump into him, I figure he’ll like you,” Steve adds. “You talk so much, you’re probably the only person in the world to actually give him a run for his money.”

“Not a compliment,” he mutters. “And if I do ramble to him, I’d probably get a repulsor to my face, Steve. I annoy people.”

“So does he,” Coulson offers. “You’ll get along like a house on fire.”

“You’re also smart,” Steve says. “He appreciates intelligence.”

Stiles stares at him for a moment. He knows he’s smart and when he applies himself, works hard and makes himself actually concentrate, he does well academically. But there’s a difference between that kind of smart and the genius that is Tony Stark. The two aren’t even _close_ to each other. They might as well be on opposite ends of the freaking universe.

But Steve is right. Even though the idea isn’t one of Stiles’s favorites, there’s not exactly a whole lot of alternatives. He can’t go back to his apartment. He isn’t safe with Steve, as much as he wants to move in with him. And he sure as hell doesn’t want to stay in the SHIELD base, which Stiles, within two days of staying here, had mentally dubbed ‘the place where happiness goes to die’. 

“Fine,” he agrees. “I’ll miss you, though.”

“I wasn’t aware it was a request,” Coulson says mildly. “But I appreciate you being on board.”

“Stiles, you’ll see me just as much as you do now,” Steve promises. “You’re not being locked up.” 

“Well, duh. My hair isn’t long enough, and my face isn’t nearly pretty enough for me to be a princess in distress,” Stiles replies flippantly.

Steve grins slightly. “I don’t know. You’re plenty good looking to me.”

“Dork,” Stiles says with a groan, but his heart is doing that stupid little flutter again. “What about school? Work?”

Steve and Coulson share a look that does absolutely nothing to make Stiles’s hopes lift. He already knows the answer, even as Steve finally meets his gaze again.

“We’ll figure something out,” he says.

Stiles decides it’s probably best not to hold his breath.

***

He ends up quitting his job the next morning, Steve’s phone tucked between his shoulder and ear as he packs up his belongings.

Harris definitely doesn’t sound sorry to hear Stiles go, and when Stiles makes it clear that he’s unable to work his notice period, Harris makes it equally clear that he won’t be getting any pay for the couple of weeks he’d worked before someone had tried to add a new accessory to his skull. He’s pretty sure Coulson could change Harris’s mind on that, but Stiles doesn’t have the energy to do anything other than to agree and hang up.

He’s not exactly sad to leave his job. He’d enjoyed being paid to be part of the research team, sure, except Harris’s idea of ‘research’ is more like writing up Harris’s stuff for him, between fetching him coffee or answering emails for him. And working for Harris himself had sucked, too. 

It’s not like he has his apartment to worry about paying for, or the bills that went with it. In fact, he hadn’t heard anything about being responsible for the damage to it, or about his lease, so he figures Coulson had gone ahead and sorted that for him.

Stiles can practically see the favors he owes SHIELD stacking up in front of his very eyes. 

He doesn’t like it.

What he won’t give up, though, is school. 

He doesn’t know how he’s going to do it. If he has to take an extended leave, there’s no way he’ll be able to catch up. The workload is too intense for that. If needs be, he could probably swing permission to take a year out before returning to studying, given the unique circumstances and all. He’d graduate a year late and he’d no longer share classes with people he’d grown to know and like, but he figures if it comes down to it, it’s better than not graduating at all. 

They’d spent the night at the base, but in Steve’s quarters instead of the room Stiles had been staying in. The place allocated to Steve for the very few occasions where he needs to sleep on base surprisingly isn’t much more luxurious than Stiles’s, although it does have a TV (unused) and a little kitchen area (very much used; apparently Steve’s appetite is monstrous after he’s expended a whole lot of energy). They hadn’t really had the energy for anything much more than a kiss and a murmured word or two, but just sleeping in the same bed as Steve had made Stiles feel more at ease than he had been all week.

He’s been assured that his room at Tony’s is fully furnished, so his dresser and things like that, Steve takes to Goodwill for him. The rest he packs up, eager to be out of the base. For one thing, he misses fresh air and daylight.

They load the few boxes of stuff he does keep into the back of a van. Steve drives, since Stiles hates driving in city traffic.

He’d discovered shortly after the whole superhero reveal that Steve has never really been _taught_ how to drive, but had learned how to during the war.

The result is as terrifying as it sounds. 

“You know, the speed limit isn’t really a suggestion, Steve,” he mutters, fingers curling around his seatbelt. Fuck, he’d taught Scott how to drive stick in a store car lot back in Beacon Hills, and he’d thought that was scary enough. Steve’s driving is a whole new level.

“Sorry,” Steve replies, easing up a little as if he’s just remembered that he doesn’t actually need to floor it. “Although, if you think this is bad, you should try being a passenger when Natasha’s driving.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, I value my life way too much to ever get into any kind of confined space with her, thanks.”

Steve laughs at that, blue eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “Keep on her good side and you’ll be fine. Besides, she likes you.”

He raises his eyebrows, dubious. “I’ve met her twice, Steve, and I _really_ didn’t get that impression.”

“You wouldn’t,” he replies, amused. “But she does. She has a weakness for impulsive, brave idiots.”

Stiles considers being offended at that particular description, but he knows he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on. Instead, he mulls over the fact that Natasha regularly fights the forces of evil with, and trusts her life to, a team that includes a guy who apparently has a tendency to jump out of planes _without a parachute_ (and Stiles still isn’t very happy about that revelation, even though, deep down, he can admit that it is pretty fucking badass, and shit, how did he manage to bag such a cool boyfriend?), a guy who regularly jumps off buildings despite being one of two team members who definitely _wouldn’t_ survive going splat on the sidewalk, and Tony Stark, who is, well, Tony Stark. 

Yeah, she’d definitely have to at least tolerate impulsive idiots in order to trust them in a fight like she does.

“I’m not brave,” he says finally.

Steve glances at him. “You shot a robot in the head, Stiles.”

“Only because the Black Widow was with me. I wouldn’t have the guts otherwise.”

“You ran right up to one to try and save your best friend,” Steve counters. He still isn’t exactly happy about that particular choice Stiles made, but it’s not like he can really talk. Stones in glass houses, after all.

“That wasn’t bravery. That was dumbassery fuelled by panic and possibly shock.” Stiles replies. “Besides, Scott and I have an oath to always have each other’s backs. We pinkie promised back in first grade.”

Steve smiles. “That doesn’t make it any less brave.”

“I tried to run,” Stiles admits after a moment. “That night in my apartment, I mean. I tried to make a break for it.”

“That isn’t cowardly. That’s smart.” Steve’s serious now, brow furrowing slightly. “Stiles, in that kind of situation, I _always_ want you to get to somewhere safe.”

“Running isn’t brave.” 

“But it isn’t dumb. Bravery doesn’t always mean jumping into a fight, Stiles. If you know you’re outmatched, if you know survival means getting out of there… _that’s_ the smart move.”

“Coming from the guy who has literally never walked away from a fight,” Stiles points out dryly. “And, yeah, I’ve read all about the scrappy little guy from Brooklyn who preferred to take a punch to the face than back down, so don’t even.”

Steve’s quiet for a moment, then, “There was one fight I backed down from.”

Oh. Stiles had asked about it, a couple of weeks ago, head on Steve’s chest and heart aching at the raw edge in Steve’s voice, even all this time later, even with his best friend back at his side.

“Well, yeah, but that wasn’t survival,” he says. “That was Bucky. It’s different.”

“Running doesn’t mean you’re not brave,” Steve insists, then smirks slightly. “Besides, I hear you also threw your phone at Agent Hunter hard enough for him to need two stitches above his eye.”

“Instinct,” Stiles says. “I ran for it a second later. Didn’t get very far, though.”

“Still. You nearly concussed a trained operative. I’m not sure if I’m impressed or horrified.”

“Don’t even try to front, Steven Grant Rogers. You’re impressed.”

Steve flashes him a grin. “Yep.”

Stiles smiles, leaning his head back against the seat. “You really can’t talk though, big guy. I’m pretty sure you don’t even _have_ a flight response. It’s all fight.”

Steve huffs a laugh at that, lifting one shoulder, conceding. His expression sobers a second later, though.

“I mean it, Stiles. I’d rather you survive by being smart and running, instead of dying out of some misguided sense of bravery.”

There’s an undercurrent in Steve’s words, an unspoken echo of what his dad used to tell him when he was a kid and eager to follow in his dad’s footsteps.

_Leave it to the professionals, Stiles. You’re gonna end up hurt._

It pokes at the knot of frustration in Stiles’s chest that hasn’t loosened at all since the night he’d had to flee his apartment. He takes a deep breath, though, ignoring it, and waits until he feels he can speak calmly before he replies.

“Okay.”

***

Stark Tower looms above Stiles.

It domineers over the sidewalk and road and spikes higher into the sky than the buildings around it. Standing this close to it, Stiles can’t see the top, even with his head craned right back. Just a shimmering wall of metal and glass, glinting in the sunlight.

“Well,” he says after a moment. “It sure is…ugly.”

Steve smiles. “You’ll like the inside.”

Stiles eyes the building again. “So between this place and the red and gold tin can he likes to fly around in, I’m starting to think Stark is overcompensating for something.”

Stiles laughs outright at that. “Be nice.”

Stiles smiles. “I’m kidding! Mostly. But it is pretty awesome that this place is powered completely by clean energy. I have so many questions. He’ll probably kick me out within a week.”

Steve rests a hand on Stiles’s back, nudging him towards the building. “I doubt it.”

The tower had been completely restored after the battle of New York. The only difference is that, even years later, the letters at the top haven’t been replaced to once again spell out ‘Stark’. Instead, just a solitary ‘A’ remains. 

Stiles starts towards the front doors, but Steve takes his hand, tugging him in a different direction instead. “That’s the entrance for employees and visitors. Tony wants us to use the private entrance.”

Stiles follows Steve around the building and through an entrance that he’d never have even noticed on his own. He doesn’t get much of a chance to glance around before they’re inside an elevator. It’s well lit, but the walls are smooth. No buttons.

“Uh…” he says.

“Good afternoon, Captain Rogers,” a crisp, English voice intones from speakers Stiles can’t even see. “Floor 91, I presume?”

Steve smiles faintly, gaze fixed on Stiles’s face. “Thank you, JARVIS.”

Stiles hadn’t flinched at the unexpected voice and he doesn’t startle when the elevator suddenly starts a quick, smooth glide upwards, either. He glances at the bare walls and smiles. 

“Awesome.”

Steve almost looks disappointed. “I just about had a heart attack when I first heard JARVIS.”

“Well, yeah, but you’re an old man trapped in a very, _very_ nice young body,” Stiles replies, teasing, as the elevator stops, and the doors slide open. “I’m more used to this stuff. I mean, my laptop talks to me.”

Tony Stark is leaning against the wall opposite the elevator doors. He doesn’t look up from his phone, but he does pull a face.

“Steve, did your boy toy just compare JARVIS to _Cortana_?” 

Stiles snorts. “Boy toy? We’re the same age.”

“Sure,” Tony replies blandly. “Give or take about seventy years. You’re a dirty old man, Steve Rogers.”

Steve looks torn between amusement and exasperation, but not anger, as he looks at Tony. Stiles glances back at the elevator, then at Tony.

“So, AI, right?” he says, trying to reign in a rush of glee. “That’s awesome.” 

“He’s called JARVIS,” Stark says. “If you need anything, he can help you.”

Stiles isn’t sure if he’s actually pissed Tony off with the Cortana comparison, or if the other man is just naturally brusque outside of his charming public persona. 

Even though Tony owns the building and is kind of doing a big favor by letting Stiles stay here, he hadn’t actually expected for Tony Stark to be here himself to greet him. He’s a little unsure on what to do or say.

Steve clears his throat. “This is your floor.”

Stiles’s gaze swings to him. “My _floor_?” he repeats, incredulous. “I don’t need a floor. Steve, I can’t afford to pay for a _floor_.”

Tony makes an amused sound. “How much do you think even just a room here would cost?”

Which, yeah, Stiles hadn’t been under any delusions that he’d be able to afford to pay for a room in Stark’s tower, but still. A _floor_.

“If it makes you feel better,” Steve offers, smiling. “Technically Tony just owns the building the suite is in. It’s actually mine.”

Surprise flickers through Stiles at that. “It is?”

“It’s going unused, so don’t feel weird about taking it,” Steve murmurs, resting his hands on Stiles’s hips. “But if you really want to pay for it, you can pay _me_. With kisses.”

Behind them, Tony doesn’t even try to muffle his laughter. Stiles just bites back a grin, raising an eyebrow at Steve as he waits for the implication of his words to hit. A second later, color creeps up Steve’s neck.

“That’s not what I meant,” he manages.

“Well,” Stiles drawls, smirking. “Steve, baby, I didn’t know you wanted me to be your kept boy.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Steve replies evenly.

Stiles looks closely at him and snorts. “Liar.”

Steve doesn’t deny it, just tugs Stiles a little closer, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then he ushers Stiles towards the door leading into the suite. It’s locked but opens before Stiles can ask about keys or codes or whatever.

“Should I be worried about your AI?” Stiles asks Stark, pushing the door open. “He’s not gonna go all Skynet, right?”

Tony doesn’t respond, just tugs a second phone out of his pocket. He holds it out. “Here.”

Stiles eyes it, suspicious. It’s a Stark phone, slim and sleek, the latest model, but he doesn’t know why Tony is giving it to him. When he doesn’t reach out to take it, Tony rolls his eyes.

“It’s a phone, not a bomb, kid.”

Stiles bristles slightly. “Not a kid,” he replies. “And I can’t afford a Stark phone.”

Exasperation twitches across Tony’s face. “Have you forgotten my surname? I have about a dozen of these lying around.”

That doesn’t exactly surprise Stiles, but it does make him want to pull a face. “That seems like a waste,” he says. “Plenty of people in need who’d kill for a phone like that.”

Tony’s mouth pinches slightly. He doesn’t put the phone away, instead putting it down on the table just inside the doorway to the suite. “Cap, I feel like I should be less surprised that your boy toy is just as insufferably stubborn as you,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s just a phone.”

“There’s nothing _just_ about a Stark phone,” Stiles replies. 

“Well, that’s flattering. Look, it’s secure, so you can call whoever you want to without the risk of anyone listening in on your conversation. Except JARVIS, but he’s seen and heard a lot worse than anything you might say, trust me.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Stiles says. He glances at the phone. “But, uh…thanks.”

Stark just does a lazy little salute in response, attention already returning to his own phone as he walks out, the door closing behind him. For a second, Stiles just stands there before turning to look at Steve.

Steve smiles. “He grows on you.”

Stiles doesn’t respond to that. Instead, he slides his hands up Steve’s shirt, tipping his chin slightly to kiss him. Instantly, Steve’s arms wrap around him, his lips parting against Stiles’s as he kisses him back.

Stiles is certain he’ll never get used to just how good of a kisser Steve is. It’s almost unfair.

“Okay,” he murmurs, pulling back. “Give me the tour.”

The place is big, but not imposing. It does feel like Steve, with soothing, warm colors and comfortable, homely furniture. One wall is smooth, uninterrupted glass (bulletproof, apparently), looking out over a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline. There’s an incredible TV and entertainment system that seem at odds with the antique radio on the shelving unit. The kitchen and main room are open plan and Stiles almost drools at the beautiful, gleaming coffee machine tucked into the corner of the kitchen counters.

The bedroom has black out blinds and a big bed with a mattress that looks and feels like it cost almost as much as Stiles’s student debt. The bathroom has a bathtub that Stiles just wants to climb into and never face the world again and, just a little further down the hall connecting the bedroom and en suite to the main room, there’s a smaller, cozy room that’s a mixture of an office and an art studio.

Stiles likes it.

But, despite the touches that just scream _Steve_ , the place has a distinctly new feel, like it’s practically unused. He turns to Steve, curious.

“So, how come you have this suite?” he asks.

“We all have one,” Steve replies. “The top ten floors of the building are for the team.”

Now the giant 'A' on the side makes more sense. “Really?”

Steve nods. “We all have an individual suite,” he says. “The next level down is Stark and Ms Potts’s private floor. They’re the only ones who live here most of the time. Beneath that, it’s all Stark Industries. Besides our suites, there’s a communal floor. It has a fitness room, private theater, medical area, kitchen and a communal living area. You’ll probably be able to use the fitness stuff or theater if you want.”

“So what you’re saying,” Stiles says. “Is that Tony Stark basically designed a superhero frat house. But none of it is getting used?”

“The communal floor gets used,” Steve replies. “We all use the fitness room and living area, when we’re all in the same city.”

“Huh,” Stiles says. “Domestic Avengers. That’s cute.”

A smile flickers to life on Steve’s face. “They’re my teammates, Stiles. And they’re my friends. It’s important to spend time together off the battlefield.”

“But how come none of you live here? Apart from Stark, I mean.”

“Bruce stays here for extended periods when he’s in the country,” Steve answers. “As does Thor when he’s not in Asgard. The rest of us stay here occasionally, if needs be. But I turned down Tony’s offer to move in more permanently.”

“Why?”

It takes Steve a moment to answer, his gaze going distant. Finally, he says, “I have experience with living in close quarters with people I fight alongside. It makes things harder if things go sideways. Besides, I need my own space. Somewhere away from the team, where I can just be me.” 

Stiles nods, reaching out to play with Steve’s fingers. “Will you stay tonight, though? With me?”

Steve’s expression clears, and he smiles, free hand sliding to the back of Stiles’s neck. He tugs him into a kiss and Stiles almost sighs, tension melting off him as he plasters against Steve’s front, just sinking into the sensation of lips and tongue and strong, patient hands.

He doesn’t realize Steve’s backing them up to the couch until he suddenly sits, tugging Stiles down with him. 

He straddles Steve’s lap, shivering at the sensation of warm, broad hands on his back, pinning him close as he teases at Steve’s lips with his tongue. For several long, perfect moments, they exchange heated, slow, slick kisses, Steve’s hands tightening slightly on Stiles’s back as he nips at his lower lip.

Then Stiles shifts forward, pressing closer, his hips undulating against Steve, and, _fuck_ , Steve is hard underneath him. The quiet, hoarse sound that escapes Steve when Stiles rubs against him, the way his hands press harder, pulling him impossibly closer, it’s intoxicating, and for a second, Stiles can’t breathe it feels so good.

Stiles is just as turned on as he can feel Steve is, an aching heat flooding through him. Steve drags his mouth from Stiles’s to press a path of biting kisses down his jaw. His tongue finds the spot on Stiles’s neck that makes his knees go weak and a stuttering moan slips past his lips as he rocks down, shivering at how good Steve feels against him.

And then Steve’s hand moves to Stiles’s jeans, thumb teasing at the zipper, and reality comes crashing back in.

Because Stiles can’t do this.

He wants to. _God_ , he wants to. Every nerve in his body is on fire with pleasure and he aches to keep going, to feel Steve’s naked body against his own, to see the look on Steve’s face when he comes. He wants it more than he thinks he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

But.

_But_.

It’s _Steve_. And Stiles isn’t exactly hugely experienced in the bedroom department, admittedly, but Steve even less so. To be responsible for the loss of Captain America’s virginity is daunting enough. The pressure of being good, at making Steve feel good, is a little much for Stiles. If Steve’s first time is terrible because Stiles sucks in bed, he’s going to feel like shit for the rest of his life, he’s certain of it.

And then there’s the other thing.

The Captain America thing.

Because Stiles had been certain before he even knew who Steve really is that their relationship won’t last. Now he’s even more sure that there’s an expiry date on them, no matter how much it hurts to think about losing Steve. He loves him, _God_ , he loves him, but Steve is too good for him. Way too good. 

There’s no way it can last.

Part of Stiles wants to know what it’s like, even just once, to have Steve inside him. But a bigger, stronger part of him knows just how much worse it will be to have those memories, only to be heartbroken down the line.

So he pulls back, a shuddering breath hitching in his chest. “Wait.”

Steve instantly removes his hand, giving Stiles space. Blue eyes search Stiles’s face. “Too soon?” he asks softly.

Stiles has no idea how to even begin to explain the storm of doubt and frustration crashing behind his ribs, so he just nods. 

“Sorry,” Steve says gently, thumb resting lightly on Stiles’s swollen lips.

Stiles nips slightly at it. “Don’t be. I like kissing you.”

A small smile lights up Steve’s face at that, but it doesn’t quite cover up the uncertainty in his eyes, and guilt throbs through Stiles.

“I like kissing you, too,” Steve murmurs, pressing a soft, barely there kiss against Stiles’s mouth before getting them both to their feet. “Come on. I’ll help you unpack.”

Stiles takes a moment to pull himself back together, his heartbeat slowly calming down from its frantic pace. Then he moves to help Steve with the boxes and they work in silence, Stiles doing his best to ignore the emotional chaos thundering inside him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning in this chapter for mild sexual content and graphic description of injuries.

Scott’s first words upon seeing the suite Stiles is staying in are, “ _Holy shit_.”

Stiles drops down onto the couch, peering at his best friend over the back of it. “Yeah,” he agrees.

Scott does a full sweep of the place. “You could fit my apartment in here. _Twice_ ,” he says, then turns to face Stiles, expression serious. “If I started dating Bruce Banner, d’you think I could get some sweet digs like this?”

Stiles can’t help but smirk. “What about Jolly Green?” he drawls. “I’d tip my hat off to you if you could handle that big of a -.”

“ _Stop_ ,” Scott interrupts, horrified, a laugh choking in his throat. “Oh my God. I hate you.”

Stiles grins. “I love you too, buddy.”

Scott still looks faintly traumatized, but he shakes his head, heading into the kitchen. It’s familiar, an echo of their usual routine when they’re in each other’s apartments, and even though this place is new to Scott, he opens the fridge and grabs two beers from the middle shelf without even looking. 

When he presses the neck of one bottle to the edge of the counter, though, Stiles jolts up onto his knees.

“Woah!” he says. “If you chip that counter, Stark will kill me, Steve be damned.”

Scott blinks, then raps his knuckles against the counter. It’s sturdy, sure, but if anyone could break marble trying to uncap a bottle, it’d be Scott, in all of his clumsy, asthmatic glory. 

Scott seems to come to the same conclusion and offers a sheepish smile. “Bottle opener?”

“Drawer to your left.”

Once the bottles are opened – thankfully without any damage to the kitchen – Scott joins him on the couch, handing one of them to Stiles. Silently, they tap the bottles together with a quiet _clink_ , then take a long gulp in unison. 

Stiles is the first to speak. “So,” he says. “How are you holding up?”

Scott shrugs, gaze fixed on the skyline outside of the floor to ceiling windows. “I’m doing okay, actually.”

Stiles can’t help but give him a dubious look at that. Scott and Allison’s relationship has always been rocky, though up until recently, it had been more on than off. Stiles has been there for all of it, from their first explosive argument and break up back when they were sixteen, right up until last year, when Scott’s long work hours had caused a brief, but horrible, rift between them.

But this time, Scott doesn’t look as bad as he has in the past. He looks well slept and at ease, shoulders loose and relaxed as he takes another swig from his bottle. Considering he broke up with his girlfriend of nine years just three days ago, he looks pretty comfortable.

“Seriously,” he adds. “I am. It was…it wasn’t a bad break up, actually. It was just inevitable, you know?”

Stiles taps his fingers against the side of his beer. “What happened?”

“We were just chilling on the couch. Watching TV, eating pizza. And it just kinda…clicked for the both of us, at the exact same time.” Scott laughs slightly. “Probably the only time we’ve been on the exact same wavelength.”

“Clicked?” Stiles prompts.

“I love her,” Scott says. “I always will. But I love her like I love you.”

He flutters his eyelashes, grinning. “Well, _Scott_ , I don’t know what to say. Do I get naked? Should I -.”

“Shut up,” Scott swats at him, laughing. “You dork. I mean I love her as a friend. My _best_ friend,” he pauses at Stiles’s huff, rolling his eyes. “Joint with you, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“That deeper love, the _I wanna marry this girl_ kinda love, that faded. I don’t know when, but…I love her and I’ll always be there for her, always be her friend, but it’s different to what it was. And she felt the same. Sure, our relationship was comfortable, but…comfortable isn’t really enough. It didn’t make sense to stay together just because it’s easy, when there could be something out there for both of us, something _more_ , you know?” Scott shrugs slightly. “So, we both agreed that breaking up made sense. It was amicable, actually. We both cried a little, then we laughed a lot, and hugged for a while. And then she left.”

Stiles is quiet for a moment, mulling that over. Finally, he nods. “Makes sense, I guess.”

“We hung out last night, actually. She picked up some things she’d left at the apartment and we ended up going for a drink. It wasn’t awkward or anything. It was nice. Like hanging out with a friend. So I know I made the right decision. It isn’t a loss. It’s just…moving forward. We’re still close, so I don’t…I dunno. I feel okay.”

“This probably isn’t the kind of thing you usually say to someone after a break up,” Stiles says. “But I’m happy for you, dude.”

Scott smiles at that, bumping their knees together. “How are you holding up?”

“With your break up from Allison?” Stiles replies flippantly. “Well, I don’t know how I’ll ever get over it, but I’m sure with some time, a pint of ice cream and a _Sex and the City_ marathon, my heart might just heal.” 

Scott doesn’t bite at Stiles’s sarcasm. He just looks at him. “You know what I’m talking about.”

He blows out a breath, watching a bead of condensation roll down the side of his beer bottle. “I dunno, Scott. A couple of weeks ago, someone tried to blow my brains out. I don’t even know how to begin to compartmentalize that.”

“But you’re safe,” Scott says quietly. “Right?”

“Yeah. Probably one of the safest people in the city, actually. This place is a fucking fortress and Steve’s…well, as bodyguards go, Captain America is pretty effective. And ridiculously hot.” He tips his head back with a sigh. “But it’s like, I’d just started to get used to the idea of dating a national icon. Even with the media shitstorm, I was handling it okay -.”

“None of that bullshit was true, you know,” Scott cuts in, voice low.

Stiles snorts. “Trust me, buddy, I know. _Lured_ Captain America into a scandalous affair? I laughed at that one for an hour.”

The not so nice articles and blogs had said some pretty nasty things about Stiles, including conspiracies about how he’d ‘tricked’ Captain America into an anti-God, hedonistic affair. Which is just fucking stupid, because Steve had publicly come out a whole goddamn year before he’d met Stiles, in retaliation to some dickhead trying to use him, the ‘paragon of American morals’, to preach against homosexuality, but still. It had sucked, more than he wants to admit, to read all of the things some people had to say about him.

Even the nice ones are hard to deal with. Having his life examined, his past dug up and splashed across magazines and gossip sites for the scrutiny of the public, it’s _weird_. 

“I was handling it,” he says with a sigh. “And I’d known that dating Steve could put me at risk. But knowing it and actually _experiencing_ it, being that close to a bullet in my skull…I dunno. It’s a lot to take in. And now I’m here, living in Tony Stark’s tower, I’ve had to quit my job and I’m taking a hiatus from grad school, and, even though I can’t see them, I know that there’s a security detail following me whenever I go anywhere. I’m still trying to process it all.”

Scott’s quiet for a few minutes, gaze steady on Stiles. “Well,” he says finally. “Shit.”

A laugh catches in Stiles’s throat. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But Steve is worth it.”

“Is he?” 

Stiles doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he says honestly. Not a single part of him doubts it. “He really is. And it’s not like he’s not taking a risk by dating me, either. He’d have a lot less to worry about if he dated someone who’s a little more evenly matched with him. Someone who can protect themselves better than I can. But he’s with me. He has to worry about my safety. He has to deal with making sure there’s a security detail on me and those associated with me. He has to deal with all of the worries and complications of dating a civilian. Not to mention the security risk to him and the rest of the Avengers. If I was taken, tortured for information…well. It could get ugly. But he’s taking all of that on to be with me. So, yeah, he’s worth it. He’s more than worth it. I love him.”

Scott smiles slightly. “He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to let anything get in the way when it comes to something he’s passionate about.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, and even though he’s still not really sure _why_ Steve loves him, being something that Steve is that passionate about, it makes his heart feel warm and full. “Still. I’d kinda like to be able to go grab a Taco Bell without going through three security procedures first.”

Scott laughs. “I bet.”

Stiles grins. He drains the rest of his beer, then stretches out, getting comfortable on the couch. “So, wanna let me kick your ass at MarioKart?”

“You’re on.”

***

“Guy sat at the table by the window,” Stiles says.

Steve doesn’t look over his shoulder to find the man Stiles is talking about. He keeps his gaze on Stiles’s, fingers resting lightly on Stiles’s wrist on the table. He brushes now and then, just a feather light touch, but it sends little thrills through Stiles.

“Why?” he asks.

“He was on page thirty-seven of his book when I went past him on my way to the bathroom ten minutes ago. He was on the same page when I walked back, and he hasn’t turned a single page since I sat down.” Stiles shrugs. “Maybe he’s a slow reader, maybe that book is _seriously_ boring…or maybe he’s doing a shitty job of being undercover.”

“Language,” Steve teases, smiling slightly. “Either you’re getting better at this, or Coulson’s agents really need more training.”

They’re in a coffee shop. Steve is wearing a plaid shirt, thick framed glasses, and a baseball cap. Stiles has his hair hidden under a beanie. It feels like a dumb disguise, but it’s working; so far, no one has recognized them. It does make a certain kind of sense. No one is expecting to bump into Captain America and his boyfriend on a simple coffee run, so they don’t look beyond the simple disguises. 

Besides, it’s New York. It’s impossible to walk ten steps without tripping over a hipster; no one’s going to think anything about two more sat in a café, slurping coffee. They’re doing just as good a job of blending in as the agents that have been assigned as security detail for their date.

It’s not exactly the most romantic circumstances for a date, but Stiles doesn’t mind one bit. After all, it’s Steve.

“The woman sat on the bench outside,” he says. “With the pram. A cyclist almost hit it a minute ago and she didn’t even look up. I’m _really_ hoping there’s not actually a baby in there, otherwise we might have to call CPS.” 

Steve laughs. “No, she’s one of Coulson’s. I recognize her.”

Stiles grins. “So…with the dude at the counter who looked two seconds away from tackling the poor barista when she bumped into my chair, that makes three,” he says. “How many did I miss?”

“Five.”

“You’re _kidding_ me,” Stiles almost twists in his chair, trying to scout out the other five agents he hadn’t noticed, but Steve’s fingers tap gently on his wrist, reminding him not to be obvious. “Talk about overkill. Who do they suspect might attack us? The freaking mafia?”

Steve shakes his head, smiling. “Coulson’s general preference is to be safer than sorry. I agree with him on this one.”

Stiles takes a sip of his coffee, swallowing it before he asks, “Does he have any idea who sent those guys to kill me?”

“No, but looking at their method of attack and the amount of men they sent…he believes that the intention wasn’t to kill you, but take you.”

“Steve, there’s a bullet in the door of my old apartment that _should_ have been in my skull.”

Steve’s mouth tightens slightly. “Coulson thinks the gunman panicked when he saw Agent Hunter.”

Stiles mulls that over, running his fingertip along the rim of his mug. So they’d wanted to kidnap him, not kill him outright. Probably to try and extract information they think he might have on Steve, or the Avengers. They’d torture it out of him and Stiles is willing to bet that after, they wouldn’t leave him alive. His mind turns over all the possibilities of what they might have done to him to get him to talk. 

A shudder creeps down his spine.

“You know, strangely, that doesn’t actually make me feel better than if they’d wanted to kill me.” 

Steve sighs, turning Stiles’s hand to trace the lines of his palm with a fingertip. “I shouldn’t have assumed a few agents would be enough to keep you safe. I should have moved you somewhere more secure straight away.”

“Yeah, no, we’re not doing that,” Stiles says firmly, shaking his head. “First of all, they _were_ enough to keep me safe. Agent Hunter got me out of there sans any bullet holes, didn’t he? And secondly, if you _had_ tried to move me straight away, I wouldn’t have agreed. You know how stubborn I can be. You were respecting what I wanted, which was to stay in my apartment. So, no, this isn’t your fault, and if you try and blame yourself again, I’m gonna go play with traffic just to prove that what happens to me isn’t actually dependent on you.”

Steve frowns. “That’s not funny, Stiles.” 

“Who’s joking?” he shoots back. “Stop taking the weight of the whole goddamn world on your shoulders, Steve. You’re not responsible for everything. You’re gonna end up with stress wrinkles, and, trust me, I happen to like your face exactly as it is.”

Steve sighs again but doesn’t argue. Stiles knows that he’s pigheaded enough that they’ll have this conversation again, but for now, he lets it go. 

He plays with Steve’s fingers, running his fingertips along the slightly rough skin of his hands. He has nice hands. Big and strong, but Stiles knows how gentle they can be. He’s seen them hold a pencil with exactly the right amount of precision to create something beautiful on a page. The same hands he’s seen sling a shield at a robot hard enough for its head to snap off have held his face with a gentle, sweet tenderness, thumbs stroking over Stiles’s jaw like he’s touching fragile glass.

He wants those hands on him. He wants to feel what it’s like for them to trace his body, to find all those spots that make Stiles squirm, or writhe, or beg for more. He wants to feel those thick fingers inside him, to feel Steve’s hands grip his hips as he rocks into him. Fuck, he wants to know if he can get Steve to let up control just a little, to get him to tug on Stiles’s hair as he sucks him off.

Arousal curls, hot and tight, in Stiles’s belly. He clears his throat, trying to chase those thoughts away, gaze focused on Steve’s hand. He tracks the path of his heart line with a fingertip, startling slightly when Steve moves, fingers gently closing around Stiles’s wrist.

“Your pulse is thundering,” he murmurs, ducking his head slightly to get Stiles to meet his gaze.

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Do you have any idea who it could be?” he asks.

Steve sits back slightly, but doesn’t let go of Stiles’s hand. “No,” he admits. “I tried looking at who might have a motive. Turns out I have a lot of enemies.”

Stiles can’t help but snort. “’Course you do,” he replies. “Your whole life motto tends to be ‘punch first, ask questions later’.”

Steve just shrugs and grins, unrepentant. 

Stiles smiles. “This is crappy date talk,” he says after a moment. 

He hums. “We could talk about the Captain America poster I noticed you put up in the suite,” he suggests. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Of course you noticed. Don’t be too flattered, big guy. My Thor poster never made it back to me with the rest of my stuff.”

“So you replaced it with one of me,” Steve replies, smirking slightly. “I like it.”

“Of course you do, you absolute dork of a man,” Stiles says, shaking his head. 

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but a _boom_ in the distance cuts him off. A second later, a familiar, shrill tone sounds from Steve’s phone. He checks it, shoulders going tense.

“Avengers have been called to action,” he says. “I’ve gotta go. Stay with the security team, okay?”

Stiles nods, getting to his feet when Steve does. He knows Steve has to go, a second _boom_ , this one closer, telling him just how urgent the situation is. But he still reaches out and cups Steve’s face to pull him into a quick, determined kiss.

“Be safe,” he says quietly.

Steve nods once, blue eyes intent on Stiles’s face. He kisses him again, just a brief brush of his lips against Stiles’s, but it’s a goodbye, an apology, and a promise all in one that makes a confusing tangle of fondness and worry knot up behind Stiles’s ribs.

Then Steve’s gone, pushing out of the door and towards the sound of danger.

Stiles watches him go, then sighs, glancing back over at the guy by the window. His book’s discarded on the table and he has a hand pressed to his ear, listening intently to whatever instructions are being rattled over his comms unit.

Stiles pushes his way through the crush of people trying to get to the windows to find out what’s going on and drops down into the seat across from the agent, ignoring his surprised look.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t suppose you know anything about civil procedure?”

The agent just blinks at him and Stiles sighs, tugging a textbook out of his backpack. He brings schoolwork with him on most dates with Steve these days, fully aware that he could be pulled away at any moment.

“Don’t mind me,” he says, waving a hand to the agent as he flips open the textbook. “Do your thing.”

He doesn’t stray far from Stiles, keeping him in sight as he consults with the other agents in the coffee shop, relaying instructions. Stiles doesn’t try to listen in, knowing he won’t have a say in whatever goes on. 

He just tunes out the distant sounds of a battle and focuses on studying.

***

He gets the call four hours later.

He’s curled up on the couch, wearing a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and one of Steve’s shirts, a mug of coffee at his side and a textbook perched on his knees. 

He can never bring himself to watch the TV when there’s superhero business going on. The thought of seeing something happen to Steve, while he’s helpless to do anything about it, makes him feel sick. 

He’s waiting for Steve. He knows that once the fight is over and Steve’s debriefed, he’ll come straight here, probably still in his uniform. Stiles tries not to watch the clock, tries not to obsess about when Steve might be back, because he can’t do that to himself, or Steve. Steve’s done this so many times and he’s always come back in one piece. When he walks in the door, Stiles will be able to check on him, make sure he’s okay before curling up in bed with him. Until then, he tries to distract himself with studying.

The second his phone rings, however, he just _knows_.

Fear tightens his throat, makes his voice come out weak when he answers. It’s Coulson who speaks to him, calm and quiet, but the reassurance in his tone does nothing to stall the panic that crashes through Stiles.

“Where is he?” he cuts the Director off.

“We just arrived in the tower,” Coulson replies evenly. “Steve’s being taken to medical.”

For a second, anger snaps through Stiles. They wait until _now_ to call him, to tell him that Steve is hurt?

But, logically, underneath all of the fear and helplessness he feels, he knows why Coulson made the decision to wait before informing him. It’s not like he could have done anything until Steve arrived at the tower anyway; he would have just been left pacing and worrying, getting himself into a state while waiting. 

He bites back the curse in his throat. “I’m on my way.”

He hangs up and leaves his phone and coffee on the table, his textbook discarded at his feet. He doesn’t bother to change or put on socks or shoes, just hurries into the elevator. He doesn’t need to say which floor he wants; JARVIS already knows. The second the doors shut, the elevator glides smoothly upwards.

Stiles hasn’t been on the Avengers floor yet. He doesn’t really have any interest in the fitness suite and he doesn’t exactly need the private theater, considering Steve’s place has a decent entertainment system anyway. Besides, the thought of going up there had felt like he’d be intruding on something that doesn’t belong to him, something that should be kept private. 

He doesn’t know where the medical area is, so he just follows the sound of people barking out orders. Frosted glass doors swish open and Stiles stops for a second, taking in the scene.

Medical staff rush about, following orders with quick efficiency. Coulson stands just a few feet away from Stiles, surveying everything, occasionally snapping out an order. Stiles recognizes some of the agents with him, but not all.

Natasha’s sat on a chair to Stiles’s left. Her hair is plastered to her damp face and there’s soot on her arms and chin. She looks tired, but alert, gulping down half a bottle of water without taking her attention off what’s going on around her. Next to her, Clint’s nose is bloody, his uniform torn in some places, but he looks otherwise unhurt.

Dr Banner shuffles past Stiles, looking even more exhausted than Natasha. A pair of baggy jeans hang low on his hips and he’s shirtless, a blanket tossed over his shoulders. Stiles can hear Thor somewhere, his booming voice unmistakable over the rest of the chatter.

Finally, he spots Steve.

His legs carry him across the room before he even thinks about moving. He almost stumbles when he gets to the bed and has to reach out, curling his fingers around the metal frame. It creaks under his grip as he leans his weight against it, trying to breathe.

Steve’s a _wreck_.

He’s unconscious, face a mess of bruises and cuts, his nose and mouth bloody. His uniform – which is supposed to be extra durable – is ripped, exposing most of his chest and some of his legs. Stiles can’t tell how deep the wounds on his body are. He can’t tell the difference between gashes and scratches. There’s just so much blood.

And the doctors aren’t even _doing_ anything.

Steve’s hooked up to some kind of drip and one nurse has his hand on Steve’s wrist, checking his pulse. But Stiles feels like there should be more medical staff here, there should be people trying to help him, they should be _fixing him_.

“He’s okay.” 

It takes Stiles a second to realize that the words are meant for him. He swallows back the panic clawing up his throat and turns slightly. 

Bucky’s sat on the bed next to Steve’s. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, his bottom lip is split, and he doesn’t look at Stiles, instead keeping a steady, wary watch over the doctor fumbling nervously at his shoulder, trying to examine the gash splitting the skin right where flesh meets metal. 

“For fuck’s sake, move,” an irritated voice mutters, pushing past the terrified doctor. “Hold still, Robo Cop.”

Despite the sardonic drawl in Tony’s voice, the tension in Bucky’s body actually eases a little, and he finally lifts his gaze to Stiles’s. Tony’s out of his armor, dressed in some kind of undersuit, a tool kit in his hands. He ignores the wound, instead probing at Bucky’s prosthetic. He seems oblivious to his own blood trickling from a small cut on his cheek as he starts assessing the arm.

“He’s okay,” Bucky repeats. “He’s already healing. He’ll be fine.”

Stiles knows that Bucky’s right, knows that Steve has gone through much worse and come back from it, but it does nothing to ease the heavy ball of worry in his gut. 

Bucky watches him for a moment before turning away, dismissive. Stiles has the impression that Bucky doesn’t really like him, but right now, he can’t bring himself to give a damn. All of his focus is on the man lying on the bed in front of him, each breath a harsh rasp in his lungs.

Slowly, Stiles moves around the bed, sinking down into the chair next to it. He reaches out and links his fingers loosely with Steve’s, letting the warmth of his skin, the feeling of him _alive_ under Stiles’s palm, reassure him a little.

He stays.

When the rest of the team clear out, Stiles doesn’t move. When most of the medical staff and, finally, Coulson and his agents file out of the room, he doesn’t take his gaze off Steve.

It’s only when they’re mostly alone – apart from a doctor and two nurses who have retreated to a side room, giving Stiles some privacy – that he allows himself to break down, just a little. He doesn’t let go of Steve’s hand, just buries his face in his other arm and lets the tears go, his hitching breaths muffled into his skin. 

When he pulls himself together, he turns on the little TV in the corner of the med bay, switching the channel to a news station.

The footage of the fight is grainy, captured on a shitty camera phone from inside an office building, but the colors of Steve’s uniform are unmistakable. Stiles can’t tear his gaze away as he watches the creature they’re fighting – some kind of mutant hybrid of a mammoth and an octopus, except half as big as a fucking skyscraper – swipe one tentacle at Steve, batting him easily into a building.

Which, annoyingly, happens on a fairly regular basis. Steve’s face and buildings are good friends at this point, much to Stiles’s frustration.

Except it’s the same building that’s on fire and in the middle of collapsing.

Stiles feels sick. He watches the roof of the building cave inwards, the structure bending and crunching as the whole thing starts to fall apart. Steve is _in there_ , and even though he’s also right here, unconscious but alive just a few inches next to Stiles, bile still stings Stiles’s throat as he watches, breathless, panic squeezing his heart.

There’s a blur of red and gold and Iron Man flies back out of the building holding Steve, speeding out of range just seconds before the whole building goes down.  
Steve is deposited on the ground, the cheering crowd get a jaunty wave from Iron Man, and the rest of the Avengers throw themselves back into battle. 

When the news anchor’s face replaces scenes of the fight, Stiles finally looks away. He glances down at Steve, swallowing.

“You jerk,” he mutters. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

He turns the TV off and shifts in his chair, getting more comfortable. He doesn’t let go off Steve’s hand and he doesn’t let himself sleep, instead watching over the other man, reassuring himself over and over that Steve will be okay.

It’s only an hour before Steve stirs. His face does this little scrunch that is, frankly, unfairly fucking adorable given the situation, and then his eyes open, a little glassy. He blinks a couple of times before his gaze manages to find Stiles.

“You know,” Stiles says, as casually as he can manage. “I should make you sleep on the couch for making me worry like that. Asshole.”

Steve smiles, still a little out of it, but looking at Stiles like he’s the best sight in the whole world. _Damn him_.

“Language,” he croaks, grin widening at Stiles’s expression.

Stiles laughs.

After all, it’s better than sobbing.

***

Somewhere between sitting at Steve’s bedside, anxiety tight in his throat, and following Steve out of the med bay just a couple of hours later despite the doctor’s protests about the _literal gaping hole_ still in Steve’s side (because Steve is a frustratingly stubborn bastard and nothing short of freaking elephant tranquilizers could stop him from leaving if he wants to), a decision settles in Stiles’s heart.

He’s vulnerable right now, but he doesn’t _have_ to be. He can learn to defend himself, to keep himself safe so Steve doesn’t have to have that worry weighing on his shoulders. Fuck knows he carries enough responsibility. 

And he can learn to defend Steve, too. 

Because Steve might _seem_ invincible (and apparently seems to think he is, the way he throws himself headfirst into trouble like it’s a freaking picnic in the park), but looking at the gashes on Steve’s body, Stiles is painfully aware that, super soldier or not, Steve is still mortal. One day, he might go out to battle and not come home at all.

Stiles just can’t let that happen. He can’t keep waiting at home, desperately hoping that Steve will be okay. 

He’s never been able to stand back when it comes to the safety of those he cares about. Whether it was throwing punches at some assholes fucking around with Scott’s inhaler in middle school (and getting a black eye for his efforts, but it’d been more than worth it to have his fingers curled protectively around the inhaler at the end of the fight), or sticking his nose into his dad’s cases, even going so far as to trail him to a crime scene once, doing everything he could to keep his dad _safe_. 

That instinct, that _need_ , to keep his loved ones safe burns even stronger when it comes to Steve. 

He’s not superhuman. He hasn’t got a flying suit of armor, or a magic hammer, and he’s never going to be as deadly as Clint and Natasha, he knows that much. Honestly, he doesn’t want to be like them. 

But he can be stronger than he is right now. He can protect himself and he can try and protect Steve. He can do _something_.

He just needs to learn how.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my knowledge of law is basically non existent and my knowledge of self defence isn't much better. basically any stuff about these things in this story is from a quick google search...so please take it with a huge grain of salt!

Stiles had known, of course, about Steve’s accelerated healing capabilities. He’s even witnessed it before, with bruises and scrapes and minor burns.

But he’s never seen it on _this_ scale before. He watches it with a maybe kinda morbid, detached sort of fascination, examining each and every healing wound while Steve just lies back and accepts it, watching Stiles with an amused expression.

“What’s the verdict?” he says finally, tone dry as dust.

“Just… _wow_ ,” Stiles manages, sitting up. “I mean, I’ve read about the serum, and a lot of the scientific theories about it make sense, even if no one _really_ knows the formula or the technology, but that’s…that’s just words on paper, you know? Seeing it in action…” he reaches out, running a finger along smooth, unmarred skin that just a couple of hours ago had been grotesquely split open. “You’re incredible.”

Steve shivers slightly under Stiles’s touch, blue eyes focusing a little more intently on Stiles’s face. “Still just a man,” he says, voice dipping lower.

Stiles grins at that. “Believe me, I know.” He leans down, brushing a soft, chaste kiss to Steve’s mouth.

A surprised sound startles out of him when Steve moves _fast_ , sitting up and enveloping Stiles in his arms as he kisses him again, slower and deeper. He sinks into it for a second before pulling back with a laugh.

“Aren’t you tired?” Fighting for that long, then to heal at that kind of accelerated pace…Stiles is surprised Steve isn’t already snoring into the pillow.

“Yeah,” Steve replies simply, then kisses him again.

Stiles smiles, sliding his hands up into Steve’s hair. He hasn’t showered yet, although Stiles had cleaned up the blood and grime the best he could with a damp cloth, and his skin is hot and still slightly sweaty against Stiles. When Steve’s mouth moves to his jaw and throat, he hums, closing his eyes in bliss.

“I love you,” Steve murmurs, punctuating the words with a kiss to the hollow between Stiles’s collarbones.

Stiles moves one hand to Steve’s jaw, gently tugging his face up so he can meet his gaze. One thumb brushes across Steve’s cheekbone. 

“I want to learn to fight.” Hesitation flickers across Steve’s expression, so Stiles quickly clarifies, “I want to learn to defend myself.”

Blue eyes search Stiles’s face. Whatever he sees there makes Steve nod. “That’s probably a good idea,” he agrees. 

“I need someone to teach me,” Stiles says, then blurts, “Not you.” 

Steve snorts. “Thanks.”

“No, I mean…I need to take this seriously. And, uh, if we’re getting all hot and sweaty on a gym mat…I’m not gonna be focusing on defending myself. Trust me.”

Steve grins at that. “I wouldn’t be either,” he says. “Besides, my fighting style wouldn’t suit you.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Would you prefer I learn Natasha’s style of fighting? Start choking people with my thighs?”

A sly glint slides into Steve’s eyes, a sure sign that he’s thinking something incredibly filthy. He smirks and Stiles laughs, shaking his head.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” he says. “And, no, not Natasha. She terrifies me.”

Steve looks amused. “She let you pull a gun from her own holster.”

Stiles isn’t sure what that’s supposed to mean, so he just shrugs. 

“Not Natasha,” Steve agrees after a moment. “Her style tends to be fast and flexible.” 

“Hey, I can be flexible,” Stiles protests.

Steve’s hands flex on Stiles’s hips. “Is that so?”

“Steve,” he says, grinning. “Mind. Gutter. Remember?” But he rocks forward slightly as he says it, stomach clenching at the way Steve’s lips part on a shaky inhale. He presses a quick kiss to Steve’s slack mouth before saying, “Hulk is obviously out. And Thor. I’ve seen that video of him high fiving Tony. Into a building.”

“Thor only forgets his strength when he knows the other person can take it,” Steve replies. “With people he knows he could easily hurt, he’s very careful. And he’s a good fighter. But his way of fighting isn’t really…like ours.”

Stiles thinks of the footage of Thor from today’s fight, flying around with his hammer and practically body slamming bad guys into the ground. He snorts. “I’ll say.”

“Bucky?” Steve suggests.

“No.”

The quickness of Stiles’s answer makes Steve pause, head tilting just slightly as he searches Stiles’s face. 

“It’s just,” Stiles says, smoothing his hands over Steve’s shoulders, “I need to learn how to defend myself against people who are stronger than me. Being taught by someone who can actually do that would be better than being taught by someone who could snap me in half like a twig, right?”

Steve considers that for a moment before nodding. “If that’s what you’d prefer. So, Clint.”

Clint is only marginally less intimidating than Natasha, if Stiles is honest. But he does kinda like the guy. There’s something about him that just makes him likeable – maybe the cheeky grin he’d thrown at Steve once, or the dry humor Stiles has heard a couple of times. Besides, from what Stiles has seen, he definitely knows how to fight.

“Clint,” he agrees.

Steve nods, hands moving to Stiles’s shoulders. His fingers dip underneath the collar of the shirt – one of Steve’s, a faded grey T-shirt he normally wears for working out – Stiles is wearing, thumbs tracing Stiles’s collarbones.

“I like you in my shirts,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss Stiles’s throat.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Of course you do. Dork.”

Steve presses his smile into Stiles’s skin, lips hot against his throat. His tongue does a little, teasing swipe against Stiles’s pulse point and Stiles sighs, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. 

Steve drops back to lie flat again, pulling Stiles down on top of him. Their legs tangle together as Steve kisses him properly, sliding his lips lazily against Stiles’s own. It’s slow and hot and perfect, sending little sparks of pleasure through Stiles. 

God, but he loves kissing Steve. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of it.

Steve’s hands slide down Stiles’s back, fingertips dipping underneath the waistband of Stiles’s pajama bottoms, and arousal flares to life in Stiles’s gut. He kisses Steve a little harder, a little deeper, one hand tugging gently at his hair, encouraging him as Steve’s hand moves a little lower -.

Steve’s stomach growls.

Stiles can’t help it; he bursts out laughing, smothering it against Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s hands slide back up, embracing Stiles in a hug, his own laughter tickling Stiles’s skin.

“Sorry,” he says.

Stiles shakes his head, sitting up. “C’mon, super soldier. I’m gonna order in some pizza.”

***

Stiles gets his chance to ask Clint two days later.

He wakes up at four in the morning, alone; Steve had stayed at his own place the night before. He spends ten minutes trying to get back to sleep, but when hunger rumbles in his belly, he gives up and heaves himself out of bed. 

A quick search of the fridge turns up a carton of milk, half a block of cheese and some bacon that is definitely past its use by date. Wrinkling his nose, he tosses the packet in the trash and rifles through the kitchen cupboards, completely uninspired.

He needs to get some groceries. He knows he can ask JARVIS to order in a delivery of food, but it feels weird to do that. An AI as incredible as JARVIS shouldn’t be used for something as mundane as grocery shopping and, besides, going to the store is one of the few normal things Stiles has left in his life. 

He’d never thought the harsh lights, narrow aisles and tendency to have to wrestle someone for the last tray of donuts would be comforting, but that’s his life now.

He’s pretty sure there’s some food in the fridge on the communal floor. He doesn’t bother to throw on anything over his boxers and T-shirt, since the Avengers have already scattered back to whatever it is they do when they’re not saving the world, and Stiles never sees Tony on the Avengers floor when the others aren’t there.

So the light in the communal kitchen is definitely a surprise.

Stiles stops in the doorway, blinking stupidly at the sight of Clint, sat on the kitchen counter with a bowl of cereal. 

“Uh,” he says. “You’re still here.”

Clint spoons another pile of mushy Froot Loops into his mouth before replying, “’parently. What are _you_ still doing here?”

“I sort of…live here. At the moment.” 

“Huh,” Clint says, then huffs. “No one tells me anything.”

Stiles finally moves from the doorway, crossing the kitchen to grab a bowl from the cupboard. He pours in a generous helping of cereal before opening the fridge. He’s already reaching for the carton of milk that’s usually there before he realizes that the shelf is empty.

“Used the last of it,” Clint says. “Sorry.”

Stiles eyes his unrepentant face before searching the fridge. There’s a carton tucked into a shelf at the bottom and he tugs it out, pulling a face as he reads the label. “Who the fuck drinks _almond_ milk?”

“Banner,” Clint replies. “He’s lactose intolerant.”

Stiles blinks. “The Hulk is lactose intolerant?”

“ _Bruce_ is lactose intolerant,” Clint drawls. “Funnily enough, we’ve never tried to give his green alter ego dairy milk.”

Stiles mulls that over before flashing a grin. “Tony’s totally tried though, hasn’t he?”

“Even Stark isn’t that much of an idiot.”

Stiles considers how ugly it could get if the Hulk _was_ lactose intolerant and consumed milk and shudders. He puts the almond monstrosity back and nudges the fridge door shut with his foot, sitting at the table to eat his cereal dry. 

They eat in silence for a few minutes, Clint slurping loudly and Stiles crunching away. Finally, Stiles sets his spoon down and looks at the man sitting on the counter.

“Can I ask you for a favor?”

Clint considers, then shrugs. “Depends what it is.”

“Can you teach me to fight?” Stiles asks. “I want…I want to be able to defend myself. And Steve.”

Amusement slides into Clint’s expression. “You want to learn to fight so you can defend Steve,” he repeats.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No, I wanna learn to fight so I can start robbing banks and rake in millions.”

He snorts. “Sarcastic little shit, aren’t you?”

“I’m 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone, okay? Sarcasm is my only defence.”

“But you want to change that.”

Stiles shrugs. “Well, yeah. Nearly getting a bullet in my brain kinda puts some things in perspective.”

Clint sets his bowl aside and hops off the counter. “I can teach you to defend yourself,” he says. “But if you’re doing it so you can try and protect Steve…you should get that idea outta your head right off.”

Stiles takes a deep breath before replying, carefully calm, “Look. I know I’m not gonna magically turn into another Black Widow or Hawkeye or whatever. I’m not looking to join your super awesome boyband, okay? I just want to be less defenceless.”

“Listen, kid -.”

Anger snaps through Stiles. “Were you born knowing how to right?” he seethes. “Or Natasha? Or, fuck, any one of the agents on Coulson’s team that could step up and help Steve in a fight if needs be?” 

Clint eyes him carefully. “No,” he allows.

“Then fuck off with that _kid_ bullshit. I’m the same age as Steve. Hell, I’m older than he was when he decided to let some scientist experiment on him! I know I’m working basically from scratch, here. I know what it will take to be able to keep Steve safe. _I know_. That’s why I’m asking for help.” He takes a deep breath, hands clenching and relaxing at his sides. “But look me in the eyes and listen closely when I say this: I _will_ protect him. At all costs.”

For a moment, Clint just stares at him, gaze sharp on Stiles’s face. Then the seriousness bleeds out of his face and he rolls his eyes. “Alright, jeez. Cool your jets. I’ll help you.”

Stiles slowly relaxes his hands from their fists, nodding. “Thank you.”

“We start this afternoon,” Clint says, pausing before he adds, “If you chose me because you think I’m gonna go easy on you, you’re wrong.”

“I don’t want you to go easy on me,” Stiles replies.

The smile Clint throws his way is sharp. “Good.” 

***

Stiles knows a little bit of self-defence, just the basic stuff. His dad had been pretty insistent on him learning, his concern born from a mixture of being a cop and being a dad with a son severely lacking in self-preservation instincts.

So he feels a little bit of a smug thrill when he manages to block Clint’s first strike, but it means absolutely nothing when he still ends up on his back less than two seconds later, his breath wheezing out of him at the impact.

“Ow,” he manages.

Clint just looks down at him, hands loose at his sides. “That was the sloppiest elbow block I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, fuck you, too,” Stiles replies cheerfully, rolling back to his feet.

Clint just grins and steps forward. “See, what you _should_ have done is this,” he says, and proceeds to show Stiles how to properly block a palm strike.

He’s a surprisingly patient teacher. He doesn’t go easy on Stiles, but his teaching method is a mixture of hitting Stiles until he starts to learn from his mistakes, and actually taking him through the moves Clint shows him. He works Stiles’s limbs until he gets the moves right, slowly takes him through each block, strike or throw, making him practise repeatedly to try and drill it into him.

“It needs to become muscle memory,” Clint says after he makes Stiles break out of a grab for the fifteenth time. “It’s fine having the knowledge up here,” he adds, tapping his temple. “But in a fight, you need to be able to rely on instinct. You’ll be reacting too fast to think too much about what your body is doing.”

By the time they’ve finished, Stiles is sweaty, battered and aching, bruises already blossoming on his skin. He sits down on the edge of the mat, gulping down half a bottle of water in one go.

“So,” he says, still breathless. “How’d I do?”

Clint thinks about it. “Well,” he finally answers. “You might just be able to hold your own against a mugger. If they’re twelve. And blind.” 

“Wow,” Stiles replies. “Thanks. Have you ever considered going into motivational speaking?”

Clint smirks and gestures for him to get back to his feet. Stiles complies, eyeing him warily as he moves closer.

“We’re not done?” he asks.

“Nope,” Clint replies easily. “I’m gonna wrap your hands. Hold ‘em out.”

Stiles does as he’s told, watching how Clint wraps each hand. He feels kind of like a child having his shoelaces tied for him; he wants to be able to do it himself next time, rather than ask Clint to do it for him, so he memorizes how Clint neatly wraps the tape. 

Once he’s finished, Clint leads him over to one of the punching bags. It’s one of the ones that Clint and Natasha use, rather than the reinforced ones that Steve can wail on without breaking it within minutes.

“Okay,” Clint says, steadying the bag. “Go ahead. Show me what you’ve got.”

Stiles hadn’t exactly been holding back when sparring with Clint, but he also hadn’t managed to land a single hit. The punching bag is at least a target he _can_ hit, and he knows from experience that, despite his lean frame, he does pack a pretty solid punch. 

So, despite his tiredness and aching muscles, he gives it his all when he punches the bag, then looks at Clint expectantly.

“Alright,” Clint says, grinning. “Good. We can work with that.”

The next half an hour is spent beating the hell out of the punching bag. Within ten minutes, Stiles knows his punches are sloppy, the soreness in his muscles making it hard to lift his arm high enough, and the more he aches, the weaker his hits are.

“This is why we’re doing this,” Clint says when he finally tells Stiles to stop. “It’s not just sparring on the mat. You need to work on your endurance and strength, so I expect you to keep this up each day. And we need to work on your flexibility.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m taken,” Stiles drawls.

Clint snorts. “And very male, so not my type,” he replies. “You don’t have to be Natasha, but all good fighters need to have decent flexibility. And your flexibility is shit.” 

“So, what?” Stiles asks dubiously. “Yoga?”

The grin on Clint’s face isn’t reassuring. “Buddy, you’ll _wish_ it was yoga,” he replies cheerfully. He cracks his knuckles. “Man, I forgot how fun it is to break in new recruits.”

“I’m not a recruit,” Stiles replies.

“Nah,” Clint agrees. “The recruits I work with at least have some decent ability when I start on them.” 

Stiles gives him a flat look. “Motivational speaking,” he says. “Really. Look into it.”

His only response is a cheerful whistle as he unwraps Stiles’s hands and shoves a bottle of water at his chest. Stiles’s fingers fumble as he unscrews the lid, feeling exhausted and weak, but full of endorphins. Stiles isn’t exactly one to work out much – he generally prefers sport, like lacrosse or baseball, to other types of fitness – but he does like the brief rush after, even though later his body will probably feel like one giant bruise.

By the time he’s gulped down half the bottle, Clint’s expression has sobered.

“Vulnerability isn’t just physical,” he says.

“Are you saying I’m too emotional?” Stiles jokes.

Clint doesn’t laugh. “Everyone, even the strongest fighters, have a vulnerability. And the people whose job it is to extract information from a target…they tend to be very, very good at finding that vulnerability. The thing that makes you break, makes you _comply_ , even after your body has withstood anything physical they throw your way. It can be anything. Love. Loneliness. Family. Your pet dog.”

Stiles swallows. “Everyone?” he says. “Even Natasha? Even you?”

“Everyone,” Clint replies. “So you’ve gotta be either very, very good at hiding what that vulnerability is, or willing to make damn sure it can’t be used against you.”

Stiles fiddles with the bottle cap. “What’s Steve’s?” 

“I think you can probably guess.”

“Family,” he says instantly. “The people he cares about.”

“You,” Clint replies, pausing to make sure the weight of that settles on Stiles’s heart before continuing, “Bucky. The team. That’s what makes him vulnerable.”

Stiles nods. “I know my safety is a risk for him,” he says. “I know I make him vulnerable. That’s why I’m doing this.”

Clint nods once. “Alright.”

“What’s yours?” Stiles blurts. “Your vulnerability, I mean? It’s just…I dunno. Looking at you and Natasha, you seem pretty…”

“Invincible?” Clint says. “That’s ‘cause we’ve gotta be. But it doesn’t mean we are.” He exhales slowly, leaning forward slightly. “Look, Stiles, if you were taken, if you were _tortured_ …you’d break.”

“I know,” Stiles replies honestly. 

“Good. That’s…good. Keeps you from doing anything dumb, thinking you can withstand torture,” Clint says. “But it means I’m not telling you shit. Not because I don’t want to trust you, but because I can’t. If I tell you, that gives you something to spill under duress, and I can’t take that risk. You got that?”

Stiles nods. “Sure,” he says quietly. “I got it.”

But he thinks about Clint’s face, the slight inflection when he’d spoke about what can make someone vulnerable. He thinks about the fierceness in his voice when he says he can’t take the risk of Stiles knowing, and just like that, Stiles _does_ know. 

Family. Clint has a family. 

He doesn’t say it out loud. That would mean acknowledging it, it would mean Clint confirming it, and if he does…well, Clint had said it perfectly well. What Stiles knows about the team is a massive security risk. One that none of them can afford.

“So,” he says instead. “Same time tomorrow?”

Clint shakes his head. “I’m heading out tonight. Coulson needs my help on something. But I want you to use that punching bag every day. As for sparring, someone else will work with you on that while I’m out of town.”

“Who?” Stiles asks.

A shrug. “Dunno. Probably one of Coulson’s lost little sheep.”

That’s not exactly reassuring, but Stiles nods.

***

The only good thing about feeling like a walking, talking bruise, Stiles decides, is that Steve happens to be incredibly good with his hands.

He practically melts into the couch when Steve starts massaging his calf, easing the tension in his muscles. It feels unfairly good and he groans, closing his eyes as his body focuses in on the sensation of Steve’s warm, strong hands on his skin.

“How’d you learn to do this?” he murmurs.

“I work out with the others pretty regularly,” Steve reminds him. “I’ve got experience in dealing with the sore muscles.”

Stiles hums. “I thought your whole super soldier thing would take care of that kinda stuff.”

“It does. I recover faster than a baseline human,” Stiles agrees. “But in the meantime, I’ve learned techniques to deal with the ache.”

Stiles nuzzles his face into his arms, sleepy. He’s completely exhausted; he’d just about managed a shower before faceplanting the couch, staying there until Steve showed up. He wants to just collapse for, like, twelve hours, but he forces himself to stay awake. It’s worth it for the sensation of Steve’s hands on his back and shoulders, massaging out the tension until Stiles feels like a puddle of vaguely aroused, but mostly sleepy, goo. By the time Steve’s finished, Stiles is half asleep, dozing in and out in that kind of hazy, blank existence between sleep and alertness. It’s nice.

“Come on,” Steve murmurs. “Bed.”

Stiles yawns. “M’good here.”

“Do you want to wake up in the morning with aching muscles _and_ a crick in your neck?”

He cracks one eye open at that. “You’re a super soldier, you can easily carry me. Chop chop.”

Steve snorts, but he does get to his feet before bending to pick Stiles up – only to toss him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Stiles blinks at Steve’s ass as he starts to walk towards the bedroom.

“This is just insulting,” he says. “But the view is nice.”

Steve’s shoulders start to shake as he laughs, digging slightly into Stiles’ hip, but he doesn’t mind. When they get to the bedroom, Steve dumps him – gently – onto the bed. Stiles is only wearing boxers, so he doesn’t need to bother changing into anything; he just squirms until he’s finally under the covers, face mashed into the pillow. He closes his eyes and listens to the sounds of Steve getting ready for bed.

When he finally joins Stiles, he settles close, resting a broad hand on Stiles’s back. One fingertip lightly traces a bruise that’s blossomed across his ribs, the result of one of his harsher play dates with the floor. It doesn’t really hurt – the bruise isn’t that bad, just a slight blemish – and Steve’s light touch makes him shiver slightly. 

“Clint says you did good today,” Steve murmurs.

“He did?” Stiles says, surprised but pleased. “I kissed the mat, like, fifty times. Guy’s a _machine_.”

“Yeah,” he says, a smile playing on his mouth. “He said you didn’t throw up even once.”

“And that’s how he quantifies doing _good_?” Stiles asks, a little horrified. “Is it too late to back out of training with him?”

Steve just shifts closer, pressing a kiss to Stiles’s shoulder. “I’m not surprised. I did tell him this morning that you’re too stubborn to throw up or tap out. He didn’t believe me.”

“Stubborn? Me?” Stiles grumbles, starting to lose the thread of the conversation, sleep creeping over him. “Stones and glass houses, babe.”

He’s asleep before he really catches Steve’s reply, but even practically unconscious, warmth unfolds in his chest at Steve’s laughter.

***

When he wakes, his body feels even worse, but Steve is still there, one arm draped over Stiles’s waist, the other tucked under his pillow as he snores. 

Stiles had slept so deeply he didn’t even dream. There’s drool on his pillow and on his cheek, and he’s incredibly glad that Steve is still asleep, that he hasn’t noticed. He moves gently, not wanting to wake Steve as he quickly wipes the crusted drool off his face.

His mouth is dry and his muscles feel tight and sore, but he doesn’t want to move. He glances quickly at the clock on Steve’s nightstand – a clunky digital thing, complete with blocky red numbers and a horrible, beeping alarm, and Stiles had been bemused by it at first since he tends to just use his phone as an alarm; then he’d discovered the ugly antique of a silver alarm clock, complete with bells (which is the worst Stiles has ever heard) and been completely horrified – and startles when he sees it’s almost ten in the morning.

Steve never sleeps in late. He’s almost always up before Stiles, adhering to his usual early morning run like exercise is his religion. It’s nice to wake up with Steve for once, and even nicer to wake up before him. He gets to see Steve completely relaxed, a peaceful expression on his face, lips slightly slack as he snores.

An aching, tender kind of fondness throbs through him. Carefully, he reaches out, running a hand through Steve’s hair. Annoyingly – _wonderfully_ – it’s as soft and perfect as it looks. Steve really is like something straight out of a comic book. Not perfect by any means; Stiles (and his stomach) are still traumatized by his attempt at cooking for Stiles early on in their relationship. But there’s something so beautiful about him that it makes Stiles wish he had Steve’s talent at drawing so he can capture this moment.

“Ugh,” he murmurs, wrinkling his nose slightly. “Asshole. You’re making me think mushy gross stuff.” 

Still, he may be a shitty artist, but he _does_ have a pretty snazzy Stark phone. He slides it off the nightstand and snaps a quick photo of Steve’s lovely, sleeping, snoring-like-a-jackhammer face.

Stiles always keeps his phone on silent, so there’d been no noise to accompany the camera going off, and definitely no flash, but Steve still stirs. His eyes slowly open, not quite all the way, and still a little hazy with sleep. But when he sees Stiles, they light up with fondness, a tired smile tugging at his lips.

Stiles can’t resist taking another photo. 

“Stop taking pictures of me sleeping,” Steve murmurs. “It’s creepy.”

“You’re creepy,” Stiles replies childishly. 

His smile widens. “And you’re embarrassed that I caught you.”

“Embarrassed? Me?” Stiles scoffs. “As if. This isn’t sentiment, babe. I’m gonna sell these photos to the tabloids. They’d pay a fortune for pictures of Captain America drooling all over his pillow. I’ll make a killing.”

“I don’t drool,” Steve replies. “And Stark makes sure any embarrassing photos of The Avengers are pulled before they reach publication.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure that’s probably not legal,” Stiles says. “And as a law student, I would know. Besides, I’m pretty sure he’d actually be with me on this one. The world needs to see embarrassing photos of Steve Rogers.”

“It’s not really illegal,” Steve says, but there’s a questioning note in his voice.

“Well, technically, no. It’s a fine balancing act, really, between the right to privacy and freedom of expression,” Stiles replies. “Like, okay, a newspaper can argue that it has a right to publish photos of Tony Stark getting kinky in the back seat of a car, or a candid shot of Lady Gaga’s butt or something, but, the individuals can take it to court and argue that, despite celebrity status, they have a right to privacy. And there’s a huge distinction between publishing what is in the public’s interest, and publishing what the public is interested _in_. So, really, it all comes down to what happens in court. The laws on this stuff are all skewy. Lots of conflict, lots of loopholes.” He yawns, waving his hand. “Bottom line: Stark has a formidable legal team, it’s no surprise there hasn’t been any front page pictures of Thor’s dick.”

Steve grins at him. “I love it when you talk law.” 

He snorts. “Oh yeah? Want me to talk dirty to you, babe? Lemme tell you about constitutional law.” He leans in, kissing Steve’s jaw, then hums. “I _was_ wondering how the tabloids hadn’t got hold of my nudes.”

“Your _what_?” 

“Nudes,” Stiles says. “Dick selfies, Steve.”

“I know what nudes are,” he says slowly. “I didn’t know you had any.”

“I live in the age of casual sex, cutting edge technology, and fantastic internet service, Steve. And my ex moved across the Atlantic halfway through our relationship. Of course I have nudes.” Stiles stretches out. “Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” 

“New ones,” Steve says instantly, looking a little shy as he adds, “For me.”

Stiles grins and considers teasing Steve, but he knows his mild, harmless version of possessiveness embarrasses Steve a little, so he lets it go. Instead, he says, “Still. Plenty of embarrassing stuff dug up from my past and splashed across the internet, but no nakedness or drunken stupidity. Or that time Scott and I got kicked out of a college bible study for naked beer pong shenanigans -.”

“What,” Steve manages faintly.

“We confused the house with the frat five doors down, we thought it was a party and it needed livening up, they strongly disagreed,” Steve clarifies. “ _Anyway_ , my point is, I should probably thank Stark. Or his legal team.”

Steve shakes his head, mouth tugging into a reluctant, fond smile, but before he can reply, a crisp English voice fills the room.

“Captain Rogers, Mr Stilinski, I should inform you that Agent Romanoff is in your kitchen.” 

Stiles flops onto his back. “An omnipresent British AI talking to us when we’re half naked in bed. _That’s_ creepy,” he tells Steve, then looks up at the ceiling, even though it’s not like there’s any cameras. It feels politer to address _something_ when he’s talking to JARVIS. “Uh, hey, two things. First, a deadly assassin barging unannounced into our locked suite kinda feels like some lax security there, buddy. Second, do you still call her ‘Agent’ even though she’s technically not anymore because it’s incredibly likely that she’d somehow find a way to smash your metaphorical balls into your metaphorical spine if you called her ‘Miss’?”

“I ascertained that Agent Romanoff poses no threat,” JARVIS replies, and it’s still mind boggling to Stiles how an AI’s voice tone can go dryer than the Sahara Desert. He pointedly doesn’t answer Stiles’s question, but Stiles thinks it’s probably a _hell yes_ and _not even Tony Stark can protect my metaphorical balls from Black Widow_.

“Alright,” Stiles sighs. “I hope that deadly assassin has made coffee, at least.”

He starts to climb out of bed, except his body completely fails him. He ends up sprawled like a starfish on the floor, blanket tangled around his legs as he groans.   
Steve, the unsympathetic bastard, just sits up, peering at him with a vaguely smug expression.

“Tylenol and a heat pack,” he offers. “And you really should work out more often. Your body is completely unused to it.”

“I have The Daily Bugle on speed dial,” Stiles threatens. “And, hey, when have _you_ ever had to use Tylenol?” 

“I haven’t,” Steve says with a shrug. “But I’ve been on the receiving end of Stark complaining after we train together. He regularly threatens to charge me for all the Tylenol he gets through after we spar.”

Stiles snorts, carefully rolling onto his back. “Also, excuse you, but I do work out. Sometimes. I may not be built like a tank or have abs that could be carved from marble like _some_ walking, talking Harlequin novel clichés,” he gives Steve a pointed look, “but I’m not completely unfit.”

It’s true; Stiles works out when he can be bothered, and he and Scott fuck about with lacrosse drills or putting together a baseball game pretty regularly. Neither of them have played on a team since high school, but it’s a nice way to hang out, and a way of keeping fit that doesn’t bore Stiles almost to tears, like running or, _ugh_ , press ups. He’s more the kind of lean muscular than ripped; he doesn’t really have abs, but he’s not as scrawny as he was as a teenager, and he’s strong and fast when he wants to be, even if he admittedly doesn’t have the greatest stamina in the gym. The point is, he’d left his self-consciousness behind along with his virginity when he was sixteen, and yeah, he knows he’s not exactly Thor or Steve, or even Stark with his aged-like-fine-wine looks, but he also knows that he is attractive in a different way. 

Steve looks him up and down, heat sliding into his gaze. He smiles. “I know.”

A flash of arousal spikes in Stiles’s belly and he almost groans out loud, thumping his head back on the floor. He’s been with Steve for months and, yeah, they haven’t had sex, but they’ve made out a _lot_ , often necking like overenthusiastic teenagers, but he feels like he should be past this kind of instant, passionate, _desperate_ kind of attraction to Steve. All it takes is one smile to get Stiles all hot. It’s almost embarrassing. 

“Coffee,” he says. “Deadly assassins and coffee. And later you can rub some Deep Heat on me.” 

“Is that a pick up line?” Steve asks, getting to his feet. He easily untangles the blanket from Stiles’s legs and makes the bed with a quick efficiency born from plenty of practise.

Stiles knows that Steve had been in the army, knows that he likes his routine and can be frustratingly neat about some things (and weirdly messy about others), but when Steve isn’t around, the bed is lucky to made at all. Stiles just doesn’t see the point, since he’s just gonna mess it all up again when he sleeps in it later. 

“You know exactly what Deep Heat is, you dork,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Help me up?”

“Well, with that kind of flattery, how could I say no?” Steve replies blandly, reaching out to grasp Stiles’s reaching hands. He doesn’t even have to strain to pull Stiles to his feet, but he’s gentle about it, considerate of Stiles’s aching muscles.

Stiles grins, pressing a quick kiss to Steve’s mouth. It takes Steve hardly any time at all to dress – neat jeans and a pressed plaid shirt, not a single crease on him, collar nice and tidy. He doesn’t bother with socks and it’s probably weird – Stiles has never had a thing for feet before, they’re just…feet, and toes, and incredibly gross when stinky – but he likes it when Steve’s barefoot, likes it when Steve is casual and relaxed. It shows just how comfortable he is around Stiles.

Since his body protests every movement, it takes Stiles longer to get dressed. His sweatpants have a hole in the knee and a sticky soda stain on the thigh and his own plaid shirt is wrinkled, worn open over a ratty T-shirt emblazoned with a snarling Hulk and comic book letters exclaiming ‘ _HULK SMASH!_ ’ 

Stiles is aware he has a frankly enviable sense of fashion. So far, he hasn’t brought out his ‘I support single moms’ T-shirt, not wanting to offend Steve’s delicate 40’s sensibilities, but he has tried out his favorite ‘stud muffin’ shirt. The slightly amused, mostly incredulous expression on Steve’s face is currently the picture on Stiles’s lock screen.

He doesn’t bother with socks either, just follows Steve out of the bedroom. 

Natasha is still in the kitchen, perched on the counter – seriously, what is it with the spy twins and refusing to use chairs? – with a mug of coffee cradled in her hands. Her short hair is pinned back out of her face and she’s wearing black yoga pants and a red sports tank. 

Stiles has a sinking feeling in his gut, but he ignores it, dragging his protesting body to the breakfast bar. He manages to climb onto one of the kitchen stools without doing anything embarrassing like whimpering, at least.

“Wow,” Natasha says evenly. “Clint wasn’t kidding.” 

Stiles sniffs. “Clint is brutal,” he replies. “The only reason I’m not in a coma right now is my manly tenacity.”

“The only reason you’re not in a coma right now is because Clint held back,” she corrects. “He beat the dignity out of you, not your ability to eat food without a straw.”

Stiles presses a hand over his heart. “That’s cold, Nat.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but she holds his gaze as she lifts her mug to her mouth, taking a long drink. Stiles doesn’t know how the fuck she makes drinking coffee appear so menacing, but she’s clearly very talented. 

“Natasha,” he amends quickly. “Not friendly enough for nicknames yet. That’s cool. We’ll get there.”

“The last person to call me ‘Nat’ was my father,” she says.

“Oh, well, that’s -.”

“He’s dead.”

“- nice,” Stiles finishes faintly. “You didn’t kill him for calling you ‘Nat’, right?”

“Stiles,” Steve chides, shaking his head, but he’s smiling. Then he adds, this time to Natasha, “Stop it.”

“He’s fun to play with,” she replies flippantly, her expression lightening into something marginally less terrifying. 

“Glad I entertain you,” Stiles says, dropping his chin into his hands. He bats his eyelashes at her. “Coffee?”

Amazingly, she manages to express ‘ _get your own damn coffee, you annoying brat, and if you ask me to wait on you like a maid again, I’ll pull your spleen out through your mouth_ ’ with just a slight twitch of one eyebrow. 

Honestly, if Stiles wasn’t hopelessly in love with Steve, he’s certain he’d be a dangerous combination of terrified, impressed, and half in love with (and a lot attracted to) Natasha.

He’s incredibly glad he _is_ in love with Steve, and therefore only feels terrified and impressed. At least with Steve, he doesn’t run the risk of having his spine snapped for being too annoying. 

Plus, Steve is a lot more indulgent. He wordlessly fixes Stiles a mug of coffee, exactly how he prefers it, and presses it gently into his waiting hands. Stiles instantly pulls it closer, breathing in the comforting smell of strong, rich coffee. He has to admit, Stark has an impeccable taste in coffee, and whatever blend he stocks the whole tower with is almost intoxicatingly good. 

“I love you,” he says.

Steve smiles. “You’re welcome.”

“I was talking to the coffee, but you’re cute too.”

Steve shakes his head, mouth curling into a smile. It always makes Stiles happy how Steve doesn’t mind Stiles’s mouth; in fact, he actively seems to like it. Probably because Steve can be a sassy little shit too, so they can banter back and forth like its foreplay.

Stiles drinks down almost all of his coffee before he looks at Natasha again. “So, I’m really hoping you’re here because your own suite is out of coffee, and not to continue Clint’s terrible abuse of my poor, fragile body.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Please. I’ve seen the footage of you punching a guy twice your size at that bar.”

“Wait, what,” Stiles splutters. “ _How_?” Then to Steve, he says, “It was three years ago, dude was drunk and getting all shitty with Scott over a bar stool. He was threatening him, so I hit him.”

Steve just nods. “Fair,” he agrees. 

Stiles turns back to Natasha. “If you’ve seen the footage, then you know I ended up with a black eye and my dignity in tatters after that.” 

Her grin is more sharp than friendly. “Yes,” she agrees. “But you were determined to cause any damage you could before he knocked you on your ass.”

Stiles squints at her for a moment. “I don’t know if you’re complimenting me, or trying to imply that I’m a dumbass.”

“Good.”

Stiles gives Steve a pleading look. “Please save me.”

“I’d ask her to go easy on you, but that’s not what you really want,” Steve replies, giving him a knowing look. “And I wouldn’t insult you by doing that. But I’ll have the Deep Heat on standby.”

Stiles opens his mouth, closes it, stumped for what to say before he finally manages, “You’re literally the perfect boyfriend, you know that? It’s almost insulting. You’re making me look bad. I feel like I’m letting the side down.”

Steve just smiles, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I try. You make it easy to be a good boyfriend. I like making you happy.”

“Ugh,” Stiles says, dropping his forehead against the counter. “You’re such a dork. Why do I put up with you?”

He can hear the smugness in Steve’s voice as he replies, “I like making you blush, too.”

“I _do not_ blush!” he protests, head snapping back up so he can glare at Steve.

“Sure,” he replies. “Just like you don’t snore, either? Or drool?” And he reaches out, tapping Stiles’s cheek.

Stiles quickly lifts his arm, scrubbing at his face with his sleeve until he’s sure any lingering spots of dried drool are gone. 

“Jerk,” he grumbles.

“Punk,” Steve replies easily. 

“I’m going to gag,” Natasha cuts in, a sly smirk playing on her lips. She eyes Steve before looking at Stiles. “Drink up, Stilinski. We’re going to work on your flexibility today.”

Stiles blinks. His body feels weak, his muscles burning and aching, tight and sore from his work out yesterday. “Uh, yeah, no. I don’t think we’re gonna do that. I’m already dying.”

She just looks back, unblinking. Her gaze is challenging and, well, Stiles has never been smart enough to resist a dare, no matter how reckless or dumb. It’s got him into plenty of stupid situations, but he’s just too stubborn, or too proud, to walk away from a challenge.

“Fine,” he says reluctantly. “I’ve taken a yoga class before, you know. A couple’s thing for, you know, sex purposes.” 

“I don’t care about your sex life, Stilinski.”

Stiles ignores that. “I was awful. I literally kicked my ex in the face. My body is not designed to be twisted like a pretzel.”

This time, she ignores him, straightening from her casual lean against the cupboards. She plucks his empty mug from his hands, placing it in the sink with her own. Stiles is pretty sure Stark had been trying to be considerate of Steve’s unfamiliarity with modern technology when he’d neglected to incorporate a dishwater when designing his suite, but with his bad habit of just letting dishes pile up rather than tackle them with a Brillo pad, Stiles almost wishes Stark had lived up to his reputation of not thinking about others.

Steve squeezes his shoulder briefly. “You’ll be fine.”

Stiles offers an easy smile. “’Course I will. I’m tough.” 

And with that, he slides off the stool, ignores the throb in his muscles, and follows Natasha into the living room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: canon-typical violence (in the form of sparring) and blood.

The next two hours can only be described as pure hell. Stiles thinks that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he hadn’t already been put through his paces by Clint, but with his body already hurting, he feels each stretch more intensely, more painfully.

After taking him through a warm up, she goes straight into a scissor hamstring stretch. It seems easy enough – something he’s done plenty of times before – until she corrects his position, so his hands are gripping his ankle, pulling him forward into a deeper stretch.

“You’re the devil woman, aren’t you?” he gasps out, trying to maintain the hold.

“I’ve been called a lot worse,” she replies. “By a lot better. Come on, you can do better than that. I’ve seen asthmatic geriatrics with better stamina.”

“This is why I vetoed Natasha, Steve,” Stiles says. 

She smiles. “I’m flattered. Put your heel back down.” 

She takes him through a series of stretches – some he knows the names of, like pigeon and cow face, and others he has never seen anywhere but thinks seem more suitable for the Karma Sutra but is smart enough not to say so, since he values having his spine intact – and then moves onto some yoga poses, working his body until he’s warm and sweaty, even though it’s nothing like the fast paced intensity of sparring with Clint.

Just when he starts to think that it’s not as bad as he’d expected, Natasha revs it up a notch, working closer to him. She starts with his arms, then his legs, bending his leg up until a cheerleader would be envious of him, stretching his limbs until there are tears prickling his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall.

When she’s finally finished with him, he actually feels a little sick, but he doesn’t admit to it. Instead, he just stays on the floor, contemplating his own choices for a few minutes. But, self-pity aside, he knows this is exactly what he wants to be doing, and he _wants_ Natasha to be this ruthless with him. It’s the only way he’ll improve.

“So,” he finally says. “You think I can do this?”

“Yes.” There’s no doubt in Natasha’s voice and he rolls his head to look at her, surprised. She shrugs. “Do you think I want to be here, listening to you whine?”

Stiles cringes. “Well, no. Sorry, I know I’m -.”

She cuts him off. “I’m here because, despite how much you complain, if you really didn’t want to do it, you wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t keep chasing you to. I’d be happy to walk out of that door. But you’re determined. You didn’t change your mind after yesterday and you faced up to the challenge today, even though you knew it would be difficult. So, yes. I think you can do it.”

“That…was actually really nice of you,” Stiles says. 

“Yeah,” she replies evenly. “It’s almost as if I’m a human being rather than an evil bitch. How about that.”

“Steve,” Stiles says. “Is it a requirement that you have to be a sarcastic little shit to be on The Avengers team?”

Steve, who had tuned out most of Stiles’s complaining for the last two hours, focusing instead on his sketchpad, finally looks up. 

“Not officially,” he replies dryly. “But it helps.”

Stiles snorts. Natasha gets to her feet, heading into the kitchen to get some water. Stiles doesn’t bother to move, just stays on the floor, limbs aching. After a moment, Steve shifts off the couch and moves to lean over Stiles, keeping most of his weight off him, which is pretty considerate considering Stiles feels like he’s been thrown out of a moving car.

Natasha disappears into the bathroom as Steve leans down, kissing the tip of his nose.

“Sore?” he murmurs, hands kneading Stiles’s thighs, easing the tight knot in his muscles.

Stiles groans, tipping his head back. Vaguely, he hears the door to the suite open, but he’s pretty sure it’s just Natasha leaving, so he doesn’t bother looking before he says, “Oh, fuck, don’t stop.”

Which is exactly when the familiar sound of a throat clearing makes Stiles’s heart freeze in his chest.

Slowly, he opens his eyes and lifts his head, meeting the gaze of the man still stood in the doorway. One eyebrow lifts slightly as he looks at them.

“Dad,” Stiles chokes out, staring at him in disbelief. Then he feels heat prickle at his cheeks. “Uh -.”

Steve is one step ahead, already getting to his feet, carefully pulling Stiles up with him. Stiles’s body really doesn’t want to be vertical, but at least he can look his dad in the eye now. Not that he really wants to, since, surprise aside, he feels incredibly embarrassed.

“It’s, uh, it’s not what it looks like?” he manages. “I mean. We were just working on flexibility.”

That eyebrow climbs higher and Steve gives Stiles a pained look. 

“I mean! Not…not like _that_. I was working on it with Natasha. Romanoff? Black Widow? I’m learning some self-defence and she was helping me.” He clears his throat. “Totally PG. Steve was just helping me release some tension.”

Steve is looking increasingly horrified. “ _Stiles_.” His voice is a little strangled. 

“Shit. In my muscles, I mean. Because I’m sore.” Stiles takes a deep breath, then tips his chin up slightly, embarrassment shifting to indignation. “And, actually, I am a grown man, so if I _was_ getting all horizontal with my boyfriend in the privacy of _his_ suite, that’d be our business and no one else’s.” 

Red crawls up Steve’s neck. He’s pointedly not looking at Stiles now. Honestly, Stiles can’t really blame him. 

“I’m aware, Stiles,” his dad finally replies, exasperated. “And this isn’t actually the most compromising thing I’ve walked in on. When it comes to you, I’ve seen a lot worse.” 

“Which, actually,” Stiles says, turning his ire to the ceiling, even though, again, no cameras. “A warning would’ve been nice, JARVIS.” 

“Your guest expressed his wish to surprise you,” the AI replies. “I saw no reason not to comply.” 

_How is it possible for a computer to sound _smug_? _

__

Oh, right. 

__

It was created by Tony freaking Stark, that’s how. 

__

“Well, it’s a _surprise_ , all right,” he mutters. 

__

Luckily, Steve seems to have pulled himself together. His posture visibly shifts into something more formal, shoulders squared as he approaches Stiles’s dad and holds his hand out. 

__

“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

__

“Oh, really?” John replies, shaking Steve’s hand, but he’s looking at Stiles. “Interestingly, I haven’t heard anything about you.” 

__

Stiles winces. “Yeah, uh…funny story, my phone broke, and -.” 

__

“Kiddo, you’ve never been a good liar,” his dad interrupts. “So I’m gonna do you a favor and let you save face by not letting you continue down that line of bullshit.” 

__

Steve blinks, then grins, looking between John and Stiles like he’s realizing just where Stiles gets his snark from. 

__

“Well, it is a little bit true. I did break my phone. On an agent’s face.” 

__

His dad doesn’t even blink. “That doesn’t surprise me.” 

__

“Hey! In my defence, I didn’t know he was a good guy. I was protecting myself. And he only needed a couple of stitches.” 

__

John shakes his head, turning back to Steve. “It’s nice to meet you too, son.” 

__

Stiles is torn between cackling in delight at his dad calling Steve, who’s literally old enough to be John’s father – which, wait, no, _ew_ , that would make him Stiles’s grandfather, gross – ‘son’, and grinning with giddy relief, because the only other person his dad calls ‘son’ is Scott. It’s a sure sign that he at least approves of Steve. 

__

He glances at Steve, and then he _does_ snort with laughter. “Steve, baby, you don’t have to stand in parade rest. It’s just my dad.” 

__

“He’s your father,” he mutters, looking all determined to make a good impression, which is just ridiculously sweet and Steve all over. He clears his throat. “I have actually suggested visiting you, sir.” 

__

“You _suck up_ ,” Stiles accuses incredulously and Steve, the little shit, actually _winks_ at him. 

__

“Well, I’m glad _someone_ is interested in visiting me,” John replies. He’s never been afraid to play dirty, which is probably where Stiles gets it from. 

__

“Aw, dad,” he says, guilty. “Come on. I haven’t been avoiding you or anything.” 

__

“Coulda fooled me,” he replies, but then he stops, actually taking in the suite. His expression turns incredulous and he whistles slightly. “I should’ve expected something flashy in Mr Stark’s tower, I suppose. You think if I started dating Black Widow, I could get a place like this?” 

__

Stiles groans. “Okay, you and Scott _really_ need to stop talking to each other, you’re getting way too similar and its creeping me out.” 

__

“Hello, John.” 

__

Natasha’s voice is smooth and amused, making both Stiles and his dad, but not Steve, jump slightly in surprise. Stiles has no idea how long she’s been leaning against the wall watching them, but he knows that if Natasha doesn’t want to be noticed, she’s practically invisible. 

__

Stiles watches with petty glee as the blood drains from his dad’s face. “You know my name?” 

__

“Of course she does. You have a file, dad.” 

__

“A file.” 

__

“Yep,” Stiles says. “I’ve got one, you’ve got one, Scott’s probably got one.” 

__

“That’s…concerning,” John replies, gaze still on Natasha. He clears his throat. “Ma’am, I apologize, I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.” 

__

Natasha tilts her head. “Ma’am,” she repeats, like she’s testing the word out. Her expression is dangerous. 

__

His dad actually gulps. Audibly. “I, uh…” 

__

Stiles takes mercy. “Dad, you’d last less than two days in a relationship with her. She’d snap you like a twig.” He glances over at Natasha. “Please stop intimidating him. He has a fragile heart.” He pauses, unable to bite back a shit eating grin as he adds, “But you’d be a cool stepmom.” 

__

She levels him with a look. “I once fought my way out of captivity, unarmed, with a dislocated shoulder and a broken ankle. I had to fight my way through thirty armed men to escape. In the end, I found some grenades. They were the only way I could get out of there alive, so I used them. There was a lot of blood. A lot of screaming. I was picking bloody flesh and teeth out of my hair and clothing for six hours.” She says evenly. “And yet, the thought of being your stepmother is the most horrific thing I’ve ever encountered.” 

__

Stiles considers being offended, then shrugs. “Probably fair.” 

__

Her mouth twitches at that, expression not exactly warming, but she looks marginally less like she’d happily knock his teeth out. She pushes away from the wall, giving John a wink as she passes him that turns up the terrified look on his face by several degrees. Then she’s gone, the door closing with a soft _click_ behind her. 

__

“So, uh, dad,” Stiles says. “Why are you here?” 

__

John gives him an incredulous look. “Stiles, I got a call to say you were nearly shot. Your apartment was raided by people who wanted to either capture you or kill you and you’re having to stay here, where you’re protected, because you’re in danger. I tried to hold back, tried to wait for you to give me a call, to actually talk to me, but you didn’t. I’m concerned, Stiles. Hell, I’m scared shitless. I had to come see you.” 

__

“Oh,” Stiles manages, guilt scratching behind his ribs. Put like that…yeah, he’s been a massive asshole. “I’m the worst son ever. Shit, dad, I’m sorry.” 

__

He shakes his head, closing the distance between them to haul Stiles into a firm hug. “You’re all I’ve got, Stiles,” he says quietly. “I couldn’t just sit around at home, praying that the next call I got wouldn’t be to tell me you’re dead.” 

__

Stiles swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “But I am safe, dad, I promise. I mean, this place is practically impenetrable -.” 

__

“I know _that_ ,” his dad says with a snort. “It took me half an hour to even get into this part of the building. The security procedures are the tightest I’ve ever seen.” 

__

“Oh, uh, yeah, sorry about that. If you’d given us a heads up, it would’ve been a little less…stringent. But hey, now you’ve gone through the initial stuff, you’ll get through a lot quicker next time. Unless you happen to have a machine gun hidden under your coat. Or you’re an alien wearing a mask of my dad’s face.” 

__

“It’s concerning how likely that second one is,” John mutters. 

__

Stiles waves his hands in a _eh, what can you do_ kind of gesture. “Anyway, this place is secure as can be. If I leave the tower, I have a security detail trailing me. Or Steve is with me, which is basically the equivalent of a whole security detail, except blonder and beefier and infinitely more patriotic. And I’m learning self-defence. Clint and Natasha are helping me.” 

__

"Well, that explains why you look like crap.” 

__

“Wow, thanks, dad,” Stiles replies, shaking his head with a smile. He hugs his dad again, because he can, because he’s _here_ ; it’s been months since he last saw him, and Stiles still feels guilty for being a shitty son lately. “C’mon, come sit down. Did you come straight from the airport?” 

__

His dad nods, following him to the couch. He still walks with a noticeable limp, but he’ll always have that. It doesn’t seem to bother him the way his lack of mobility had first frustrated him. He’s gained weight and looks healthy, but he’s still not back to the physique he had years ago. 

__

Still, it’s better than how small he’d looked in that hospital bed weeks after the Battle of New York. Stiles still shudders to think of how lost and broken and _angry_ his dad had been. Like a ghost of his former self. 

__

“You’ve been avoiding my calls,” he says, easing down onto the couch with a loud exhale. 

__

“Yeah, kinda. Sorry.” Stiles bites his lip. “I was nervous.” 

__

John’s brow furrows. “Why?” 

__

“Because it’s nerve wracking, introducing your boyfriend to your dad.” 

__

“Stiles, you told me all about him when you first started seeing him. I even said hi to him on the phone once." 

__

“Well, yeah, but it’s different now. I mean, now I’m introducing you to the man I love.” 

__

“Well, no shit,” John says. “Stiles, you’re more obvious than this damn tower. You’ve always worn your heart on your sleeve.” 

__

Stiles smiles, picking at the arm of the couch. “Plus, he’s…you know, he’s _Steve_. And I know…” he hesitates, gaze flicking to Steve before he pushes on, “I know that what with the superhero thing, and the whole…Battle of New York thing, it might be…hard for you. To accept me dating him.” 

__

Steve looks a little worried about that. “Sir,” he says, softly, seriously. “When your son agreed to step out with me -.” 

__

_Step out_ , Stiles mouths, a little incredulous. Steve catches it and smiles slightly. 

__

“Or date,” he amends. “Be in a relationship with me, whichever.” 

__

“No, no, carry on. I like your old fashioned slang. It’s cute. Wanna call me your fella? _Oh_ , am I your doll? Are we _rationed_?” 

__

“Don’t tease,” Steve says, more amused than exasperated, before turning back to John. “What I’m trying to say is, your son means a lot to me. I love him, and -.” 

__

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” John says, lifting a hand. “Look, son, you don’t need to try and justify yourself to me, or try and make a good impression, or plead your case about dating my kid. He’s an adult and God knows he’s known his own mind since he was a child anyway. He’s been stubborn since the day he was born.” 

__

Steve grins slightly. “I sure know that, sir.” 

__

“Glass houses, Steve,” Stiles mutters. 

__

“You don’t need to ask my permission to be with him. It makes no difference if I approve of you or not, Stiles is going to date who he wants to date. Hell, I figure he’d be more likely to chase after someone if I _didn’t_ approve of them, just to be contrary. He’s a pain in the ass like that. But, ultimately…like I said, he’s an adult. His love life is his own. He can make his own decisions.” 

__

Stiles gives a little fist pump. “Damn straight.” 

__

“But,” John adds. “Because I know it’s important to Stiles, for the record, I _do_ approve.” 

__

“You do?” Stiles asks, relieved. 

__

His dad smiles, tone dry as dust as he replies, “Stiles, if there was a list of people that most parents have of who they would trust with their child, I’m pretty sure Captain America would be right there at the top. He can keep you out of trouble. He’s sensible. You need that kind of sensible.” 

__

Stiles mouth drops open. “Sensible?” he repeats. “ _Sensible_?” 

__

John shrugs. “He’s a solid, dependable guy.” 

__

“Well, yeah. But _sensible_? _Keep me out of trouble_?” Stiles splutters slightly. “I’m pretty sure 'trouble' is his middle name!” 

__

“It’s Grant, actually,” Steve says, not even trying to hide his grin. 

__

“Dad, if you looked up 'trouble' in the dictionary, there’d be a big picture of his grinning face, right slap bang in the middle the page! And do you know what you’d find if you looked up the word 'sensible'? _Not Steve_.” 

__

“Are you actively trying to talk me out of approving of him right now?” John asks. “Is that what’s happening?” 

__

“What? Well, no, obviously not. But _sensible_?” 

__

His dad shakes his head. “Stiles, kiddo, he’s a good guy. You can’t find much better than him. And as for the superhero thing…he saves the world, or at least the country, on a pretty regular basis. Why would I hold that against him?” 

__

"But -." 

__

“And I don’t blame him or the rest of the heroes for what happened during that battle,” he continues, voice going firm. His Sheriff voice. “They’re not responsible for what happened to me. Sure, I’d happily punch that Norse asshole in the face -." 

__

“Loki,” Stiles murmurs. 

__

“But I’d be one bitter old man if I held what happened to me against Steve,” his dad carries on. “What happened to me was just…life. Shit happens, Stiles. I jumped into the fray to help; what happened is on me. So, no, I don’t have any issue with Steve. I’m happy that you’re happy.” 

__

Stiles has to clear his throat, swallowing back the lump that’s suddenly lodged there. “Dad,” he says. “Stop, before you make me do something all mushy and dumb like cry.” 

__

“I live to embarrass you,” he replies easily. “And, just so you know…I think your mom would be happy too. She’d love Steve. She watched all of the movies.” 

__

Pink creeps up Steve’s neck and Stiles smiles. “She had good taste,” he says softly. “Hey, do you still have those movies? Can I borrow them? I have a sudden need to watch them.” 

__

Steve rubs at his jaw, shaking his head. 

__

“Do you have anywhere to stay?” Stiles asks. “There are some guest rooms. Tony would probably let you crash in one. How long are you in town for?” 

__

“Four days,” he replies. “And, thanks, but I’ve booked a hotel. I have plans.” 

__

“Too busy for your own son,” Stiles teases, but hugs his dad again, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and sandalwood. “Thanks for coming, dad. I really am sorry.” 

__

“Don’t be,” he claps Stiles on the back before withdrawing. “Dinner later?” 

__

Stiles smiles. “Sure.” 

__

He sees his dad out, feeling a prickle of nerves for his dad’s safety, but there’s few people as safety savvy as John Stilinski. Besides, he knows SHIELD will have people keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t end up targeted as a way to get to Stiles. 

__

Once he’s back in the suite, he drops back down onto the couch next to Steve. For a moment, silence hangs in the air before he bursts. 

__

“ _Sensible_?!” 

__

Steve smirks. “That’s me.” 

__

“You let a bunch of people experiment on you in a basement in _Brooklyn_ ,” Stiles says, hands flailing slightly. “You regularly jump out of planes without a parachute. I’ve seen you literally _throw your body_ at an armed bad guy without even your shield to protect you! _Sensible_?!” 

__

Steve just grins, nudging Stiles onto his back as he shifts to cover him with his body, bumping their noses together. “Your dad likes me,” he says, pleased. 

__

“My dad knows _nothing_ ,” Stiles huffs. “Sensible my _ass_. You literally have a history of dragging people into very _not sensible_ situations, but he thinks you’re gonna be the one to keep _me_ out of trouble? I’m insulted. I’m beyond insulted. I’m astounded. I’m -.” 

__

“Flabbergasted?” Steve offers with a sly little grin. 

__

“Oh, shut up, you old fuddy-duddy,” Stiles grumbles, and Steve throws his head back with laughter, shoulders shaking. Smiling, Stiles slides his arms over his shoulders, kissing the laughter off his face. “My dad approves. He likes you.” 

__

“Now do you feel ridiculous for holding back from introducing me to him?” Steve asks. 

__

“A little,” Stiles admits. “But I’m happy. You have the official parental seal of approval.” 

__

Steve smiles, his expression softening into something a little sad, but tender. “So you know,” he murmurs. “I wish I could introduce you to my ma. She would have scolded that mouth right off of you, but she would have loved you. She had a soft spot for mouthy but good hearted brats. She adored Bucky.” 

__

Stiles strokes his thumb along Steve’s jaw, heart aching. “I wish I could’ve met her,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.” 

__

Steve lets his forehead rest gently against Stiles’s, just bumping their noses together affectionately. Stiles doesn’t break the silence; instead, he closes his eyes and wraps his arms around Steve, holding him close, wishing he could ease the grief that still aches deep in Steve’s soul. 

__

*** 

__

Allison is visibly less impressed with the suite than Scott or Stiles’s dad. 

__

It’s definitely a relief; Stiles had been wary that she’d take a leaf out of their book and make a comment about banging Hawkeye to get a nice place to live in. Instead, she gives the suite a sweeping glance, then kicks off her boots and makes herself at home on the couch, curling her legs underneath her. 

__

Stiles joins her with a kind of giddy glee. They talk daily, either by text or video call, but it’s not the same as when they’d actually hang out in person at least twice a week. Scott is his best friend, has been what Stiles considers his platonic soulmate since they were tiny kids, but he’s no less close to Allison. She’s his other best friend - his admittedly more sensible best friend – and, in some ways, she’s always been a very grounding focus in his life, like an anchor. 

__

They’re similar enough that, rarely, they clash; they’re both stubborn and sometimes too impulsive, they’re both protective, they both love deeply and fiercely when they allow themselves to, and they’re both sarcastic. But Allison is also sweeter than Stiles, a lot kinder and a lot more patient, and in general, she’s calmer. More focused. And that level-headedness, that genuine warmth in her heart, helps to balance Stiles, too. 

__

“I’ve missed you,” he says. 

__

She grins, wide enough to flash her dimples, and throws her arms around him in a fierce hug. “I’ve missed you too. Pizza and MarioKart just isn’t the same without you." 

__

“I know,” Stiles agrees mournfully. “Although, I’ve gotta be honest, I’m getting through beers a _lot_ slower without you around.” 

__

She shrugs, unrepentant, as she sits back again. She tucks her feet underneath his thigh, getting comfortable. 

__

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you properly,” Stiles says quietly. “After the break up, I mean.” 

__

“You’re always there for me if I need it,” she replies easily. “And I get it, Stiles. Scott needed you more than I did. I’m never going to resent you for being a good friend to him. Besides, I had Lydia.” 

__

Stiles smiles, fond. He’s always loved how Allison’s never been jealous of his friendship with Scott, how she’s always known that, when it’s crucial, he’ll be there for Scott first, but it doesn’t mean he cares about his friendship with Allison any less. She’s always encouraged that, actually, because their friendship is strong enough to not get tangled up by issues of exes and Scott being his friend first. 

__

Allison is kind of awesome. 

__

“Lydia gives great advice,” he agrees. 

__

"Who said anything about advice?” she replies with a sly smile. “We drank way too many cocktails, went to a club with butt naked butlers, and then pigged out on fries and ice cream. It was great.” 

__

“Butt naked butlers, huh?” he says. “Where is this place?” 

__

“Oh, please. I’ve seen your boyfriend. You have no need for chiselled, bowtied hotties.” 

__

Stiles nods sagely. “It’s true. My fella is hot like burning.” 

__

“Your _fella_?” she repeats, face lighting up in delight. 

__

Stiles shrugs, not embarrassed in the slightest, because as old fashioned as it is, and as much as he teases Steve when he slips into his outdated slang, he genuinely does love how that particular phrase sounds. _My fella_. 

__

“I’m glad Lydia was there for you,” he says. “Are you okay, though? Scott told me what it was all about, but I know it must still suck.” 

__

“It does,” she sighs. “It _really_ sucks. I care about him a lot. He was my first love. I think I’ll always love him, just…not in that way anymore. He’s been my constant for so long that now he’s not, it’s just…strange. It’s a good thing, overall, but I do miss him. We’re still friends, but I just…it’s been Scott since I was sixteen, and now it’s just me, and I’m kind of in a bit of a spin right now.” She frowns slightly. “Scott’s always known what he wants in life. He’s always known he wants to be a vet. He’s always known what kind of house he’d like, when he’d like to get married, whether he wants kids or not. He even has names picked out for his future dogs." 

__

“Bert and Ernie,” Stiles says with a nod. “I tried to sell him on Luke and Leia, but it was a no go.” 

__

She smiles at that, but there’s a tightness to her face as she continues, “I’ve never had that. I’ve never had that…that certainty, that _security_ , in what I want to do. I know who I want to be, sure, and I like the person I am today. But what I want to actually do with my life? I don’t know if I want to get married. I definitely don’t feel ready for that kind of commitment right now. I’m not sold on the idea of kids, either, but at the same time, I am still open to the idea, in the future. I love being a firefighter, but I’m not even completely sold on that being my career forever, you know?” 

__

Stiles curls his fingers around her ankle, giving a little reassuring squeeze. “I mean, I think you’re doing great. The fact that you’re secure in the person you are right now is a hell of a lot more than most people can say, especially people our age. And when you broke up with Scott…it sucks, yeah, but that kind of decision, to walk away from something that isn’t quite right anymore, that’s really fucking brave. That’s the first step towards figuring out what you want from life.” 

__

She doesn’t dispute that, just drops her head back onto her arm. “I know. But most people at least know what they’re good at. They have that stuff figured out when they’re still in school, and I’m still…screwing around with different things, like I did in school. I still have crappy art and poetry in my apartment, did you know that?” 

__

“I liked your poetry,” Stiles offers. “But, seriously, you’d be surprised how _few_ people actually have that shit figured out in high school, even if they think they do. There are plenty of things you’re good at, Allison. It’s actually pretty annoying.” 

__

That makes her laugh, dark eyes looking a little less worried. 

__

“You’re, like, the best archer I’ve ever seen,” Stiles adds. “And I’ve met Hawkeye, so, you know. Think about that.” 

__

“I’ve seen him throw himself off buildings and use a modified arrow with rope to stop his fall,” she says dryly. “Not sure you can get better than that.” 

__

Stiles shakes his head. “That’s just showing off. I’m pretty sure it’s a requirement for members of the team to have a pretty careless attitude towards their own wellbeing, actually. You’ve got killer aim, Allison.” She grins, and he continues, “And you’re good at violence.” 

__

A sharp laugh splutters out of her. “Thanks?” 

__

“No, seriously. Not just on video games, either, although that’s a point. You’re frustratingly good at kicking my ass on multiplayer. But you’re well trained in combat and self-defence. You’re good at _literally_ kicking ass, if you have to. And you’re great at pulling me out of the dumbass situations I get myself into. You’re just as good at getting me _into_ them.” 

__

Allison grins. “True,” she allows. 

__

“You’re pretty talented at picking up my battles when I get myself into scraps. Which, I maybe shouldn’t be so smug about, since most people would take it as a hit to their dignity -.” 

__

“You’re not dumb enough to get all emasculated by something like that,” Allison interrupts. 

__

"Thank you,” Stiles says, batting his eyelashes playfully before continuing, “You’re good at being there for the people you care about. You give really good hugs. No one can cheer people up like you can. You have this really infectious smile. It’s super annoying.” 

__

“Aw, that’s so sweet.” 

__

“You’re terrifyingly good with guns,” Stiles adds. “And knives. Which, by the way, please stop with the knives. I love you, but it still scares me when you get all excited about sharp things.” 

__

“I don’t get _excited_ -.” 

__

“You’re really smart. And, yeah, you suck at art and poetry and whatever, but so do I. You’re good at other things. Stuff that makes you, well, _you_. Gymnastics. Scaring the hell out of people by jumping out of windows, like being a flexible badass also means you can’t break a bone. You’re really great at running into fires to rescue people. And climbing trees to save kittens.” 

__

“I’ve never actually done that,” she says dryly. “Not much demand for it these days.” 

__

“But you’re the type of person who _would_ ,” he replies. “Photography, running, guessing the end of movies and spoiling it for everyone…you have loads of talents.” 

__

She’s grinning now, fond, even as she rolls her eyes. “Okay, okay, stop,” she laughs. “You’ll give me an ego almost as big as yours.” 

__

Stiles gives her an incredulous look. “We’re in _Tony Stark_ ’s tower, and it’s _my_ ego you go after?” 

__

She smirks, scooting closer to bump her shoulder against his. “Seriously, Stiles. Thank you. That actually really helped. And I love you too.” 

__

“Of course you do. I’m a gift.” 

__

“And you wonder why I didn’t go for Tony Stark’s ego,” she drawls. She pillows her head on his shoulder. “Really, though. That was surprisingly sweet of you. I actually feel better.” 

__

"Yeah, well, don’t tell anyone,” he replies. “I have a reputation to maintain.” He gives her shoulders a little squeeze. “I have missed you." 

__

“Oh,” she says quietly. “Wow, I’m tactless. Talking about myself when you’re going through something a lot heavier than what I am." 

__

Stiles blinks. “What? Hey, no, I’m fine.” 

__

“Someone tried to shoot you, Stiles.” 

__

“Well, yeah, but let’s be real. A _lot_ of people want to shoot me. I just have one of those personalities.” 

__

“That isn’t funny,” she says, even though her mouth curls up slightly. She sits up properly, looking at him. “You nearly died. And you’ve had to quit your job, your education’s at a halt, and you had to leave your apartment. All at once. That’s pretty crappy.” 

__

He sighs. “Well, yeah. It did suck a little and I admit to feeling stupidly self-pitying for a little while. But, perspective, you know? There’s a lot worse going on out there. I mean, look. I’m staying, for free, in a pretty snazzy apartment in Tony Stark’s tower. That…some people would kill for that alone. I’m safe, there’s people who are putting their life on the line to make sure I’m protected, my family and friends are all fine. There’s a really awesome AI that can have a pizza ordered for me if I only ask. And I have Steve. Besides, I chose all of this. So, really, it’s fine. I’m fine.” 

__

She looks at him for a moment, gaze searching his face, before she nods, satisfied. Then she elbows him gently in the ribs, teasing. “When did you get all wise?” 

__

“I’m dating a guy over half a century my senior,” he replies flatly. “I had to bridge that maturity gap somehow.” 

__

She laughs, tucking her dark curls behind her ears. “Yeah, you’re definitely fine,” she agrees. “You look like shit, though.” 

__

“That’s so kind of you, thank you. Why did I invite you over again?” 

__

“You didn’t. I told you I was coming over and you didn’t really get to decide otherwise.” 

__

“I could’ve asked JARVIS to lock the place up,” he says, mulishly. “Kept you out.” 

__

“But you didn’t,” she sing-songs. 

__

He shakes his head, smiling. “Actually, I _feel_ like crap. No, wait, that’s an understatement. I feel like roadkill.” 

__

“Have you been doing push ups?” she asks, all gentle concern, except her mouth is twitching and there’s a mischievous gleam in her eyes. 

__

“I’m surrounded by terrible, evil people. But, actually, yeah, I have been, among other things. Equally horrible things, things that belong in a torture manual.” 

__

“Strong words from someone who personally knows two super spies.” 

__

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “I’ve been learning self-defence.” 

__

“And you didn’t ask me for help?” she asks, feigning offence for half a second before adding, “Is Steve teaching you?” 

__

He shakes his head. “Clint and Natasha.” 

__

“And you’re _complaining_? I’d kill for a chance to learn from them.” 

__

He shrugs. “Maybe you can join us next time.” 

__

She smiles. “Maybe,” she agrees, then, “Okay. Please tell me you have MarioKart here.” 

__

“Duh.” 

__

“Good. I’m gonna remind you just who is boss.” 

__

*** 

__

Stiles grabs lunch with his dad on his last day in the city, wanting to spend some time just the two of them before his dad’s flight. 

__

He ends up losing track of the time, which makes his dad almost miss his flight, and Stiles definitely late for training with Clint. When he gets back to the tower, even the ridiculously fast elevators are too slow for Stiles, and he practically sprints into the suite. 

__

Steve’s there, stood in the kitchen, talking with Tony. He pauses though, gaze sliding to Stiles, and smiles warmly. Stiles is _really_ late, but he can’t resist going over to press a quick kiss to Steve’s lips. 

__

“Wow, Rogers,” Tony says, looking Stiles over, taking in the burgundy jeans, the ‘stud muffin’ T-shirt under old, ratty plaid. “You actually managed to find someone who dresses even worse than you. I’m impressed.” 

__

“Please,” Stiles replies. “You’re ancient. Your views on fashion haven’t been relevant in, what? Forty years?” 

__

Tony sniffs, adjusting the cuffs on what is properly a very expensive designer suit, but there’s humour in his eyes. 

__

Steve grins, kissing Stiles again before gently pushing him towards the bedroom. “Jeans aren’t flexible.” 

__

“I’ll _show_ you flexible,” Stiles replies, just to fluster Steve a little since they have company, then heads into the bedroom. 

__

He changes into his work out gear in double time and barely spares the two men in the kitchen a glance as he sprints for the elevator. He’s actually not breathless by the time he skids into the fitness room, which shows that his efforts with the punching bag and strength stretches over the last few days have actually helped a little. 

__

It gives him a little boost. He wonders what he’ll be like if he keeps it up for even longer. 

__

His enthusiasm suffers a very quick, brutal death, though, when he registers who’s actually waiting for him by the mat. He stops so fast he almost trips over his own feet, eyeing Bucky warily. 

__

“Where’s Clint?” 

__

“Busy.” The reply is short. “I’m takin’ over.” 

__

Stiles almost, _almost_ gives into the temptation to start edging back towards the door, but he’s too proud for that; instead, he holds his ground. “Great,” he says. “That’s just…great. You know, actually, I might just go ask Steve? I wouldn’t want to take up your time.” 

__

Bucky’s stare pins him to the spot. Stiles very manfully _doesn’t_ squeak. 

__

“Move it.” It’s a command, quiet but sharp, and yeah, Stiles definitely doesn’t want to find out what happens if he doesn’t follow it. 

__

Exhaling slowly, he crosses the room, removing his shoes and kicking them aside, out of the way of the mat. Bucky’s wearing the same kind of workout gear that Steve does, probably designed by Stark, tough but durable. The shirt is a tank and Stiles does his best not to gulp when he looks at all of that gleaming metal on show. Bucky could probably kill him with one finger. 

__

He half suspects Bucky _wants_ to. 

__

“So, uh, by taking over, you mean just for today, right?” he checks. 

__

“No.” 

__

“Oh. Wonderful.” 

__

“You wanted to learn to fight. To defend yourself.” Bucky lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m gonna make sure you actually learn.” 

__

“That’s…very helpful of you,” Stiles says carefully. “Thanks, I g-.” 

__

He’s on his back. 

__

He hadn’t even seen Bucky _move_ , but suddenly he’s on the mat, his already tender back throbbing at the impact with the ground. His chest feels like he’s been hit with a bowling ball and he struggles to breathe for a moment. 

__

Finally, he wheezes in a desperate lungful of air, giving Bucky a look that he hopes shows just how _not fucking impressed_ he is. 

__

“So, yeah, question,” he says, not making any effort to get up. “You’ve trained people before. As the Winter Soldier, right?” 

__

The blankness on Bucky’s face is replaced by a very pissed off expression. Bringing up the Hyde to Bucky’s Jekyll probably isn’t the smartest decision, but Stiles isn’t really in the mood to give a damn, considering he’s still a little breathless. 

__

“I’ll take that as a yes. So, follow up question,” he continues, keeping his voice level. “Back when you were in the army, is that how you would help one of your fellow soldiers? I really hope not, unless Steve had really shitty taste in friends back then. So maybe you should focus on that instead of training me like old Winter Dickface would have. Because that stunt you just pulled is straight up _bullshit_." 

__

It’s almost funny, he thinks, how easily his fear of people can evaporate when he’s mad. It’s going to get him into a whole heap of shit someday. 

__

Possibly today. 

__

He eyes Bucky’s expression. 

__

Okay, almost definitely today. 

__

He clears his throat. Oh, hey, _there_ ’s the fear. “Okay, admittedly, bringing up the Winter Soldier was an asshole move. Please don’t kill me?” 

__

To his surprise, Bucky just rolls his eyes. “You need to learn,” he grits out. “And you need to learn fuckin’ fast. I’m not going to coddle you like Clint or Nat.” 

__

So Bucky can call her ‘Nat’. Interesting. 

__

“I think you’re the only person who’s ever accused Natasha of _coddling_ ,” he replies. “And, no, they don’t. Clint doesn’t coddle at all. He’s just considerate enough to not try and beat me into a coma when we’re training. Maybe you should learn from his teaching style; you might be surprised by how effective actively _not_ hurting your mentee can be.” 

__

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change. It’s like he hadn’t even listened to what Stiles said, which, _rude_. 

__

“Get up.” 

__

“No,” Stiles replies, more petulant than defiant, but he’ll take it. 

__

“ _Move_.” 

__

Stiles lifts his chin slightly. The effect is probably ruined by him being horizontal on the floor with Bucky towering over him, but still. 

__

“I’ll tell Steve,” he threatens, smug. 

__

Bucky’s composure is surprisingly easy to break. “What – that – this isn’t a fuckin’ _playground_. We’re not kids.” 

__

“You’re a, what? Octogenarian? Nonagenarian? Old as fuck, anyway.” Stiles agrees. “So, definitely not kids.” 

__

“Maybe _you_ are. Threatening to fuckin’ rat me out to Steve.” Bucky shakes his head. “He had to go and start steppin’ out with -.” 

__

Stiles kicks him in the knee. _Hard_. 

__

It doesn’t even knock him off balance, which is insulting, though his leg does wobble for a fraction of a second before he looks down in disbelief. 

__

“Are you – _seriously_?” 

__

Stiles just gives him a smug smirk. “You play dirty, _I_ play dirty.” 

__

Bucky’s jaw tightens. “Get your ass off the floor.” 

__

He actually complies this time, careful to skitter right back out of Bucky’s reach as he does so, fully aware that the asshole will probably knock him back down before he’s even properly back on his feet. He falls into the stance Clint taught him, watching Bucky closely. 

__

Now that he’s concentrating, he notices that slight tic, the smallest indication that Bucky’s about to attack. He ducks quickly to the left, but Bucky moves freaking _fast_ ; his strike lands on Stiles’s shoulder instead of his chest, hard enough that Stiles’s feet actually leave the ground as he spins down to kiss the mat again. 

__

He manages a quiet, pained grunt. He knows that Bucky definitely pulled the punch – his shoulder would be in pretty ugly shape right now if he hadn’t, instead of just bruised and aching – but still. 

__

It’s humiliating. It’s painful. 

__

It’s really fucking _annoying_. 

__

“Okay,” he says, rolling over. He pauses to run his tongue along his teeth, making sure they’re all intact before he repeats, “Okay. So, what exactly is your plan here?” 

__

Bucky just shrugs. “Keep knockin’ you on your ass until you learn to stop me.” 

__

“Oh, wow, _great_ plan. I can really see those military tactics coming into play. So, explain to me, genius, how I’m supposed to learn when you’re not teaching me anything other than the fact that you’re a dick? I’m way outmatched. You’re faster, you’re stronger, you’re highly trained, and you’re a lot… _lot_ older than me. How is your plan gonna work when I can’t physically defend myself against you?” 

__

He’s gone too far, said something wrong somewhere, because any patience Bucky has just _snaps_. And Stiles doesn’t know him well, but he knows a lot of what Steve has told him, and he’s smart enough to make pretty solid assumptions by himself. A man who spent months pulling himself back together, piece by tiny, fragile piece, should be a lot more patient than this, and a lot less easily ruffled. 

__

“You’re not takin’ this seriously,” he practically snarls, crouching until his face is almost in Stiles’s. “You think you’re outmatched with me? Then what the fuck do you think you’re gonna face by anyone out there who wants to get their hands on you? They could be bigger than you, or stronger than you, or better trained. Or there could be ten of ‘em, or twenty, _fifty_ , so what the fuck will you do then? Kill ‘em with sarcasm?” 

__

Stiles clears his throat. “Well -.” 

__

“ _Don’t_ ,” he warns, sitting back. His voice is like thunder. “You just keep on jokin’ around, you arrogant son of a bitch. It’s gonna get you killed.” 

__

The anger that spikes through Stiles almost guts him in its intensity. He has to take a second to just breathe, so full of hot, vicious fury that his lungs feel too small, his skin too tight. When he speaks, his voice is very, very calm. 

__

“Huh. I guess you lost your sense of humor as well as an arm.” 

__

Something cold settles on Bucky’s face. His prosthetic is silent as his fingers curl into a fist, metal rippling like frosted water under the gym’s lights. Stiles doesn’t let him gather himself again; he brings his knee up sharply, driving it into Bucky’s ribs hard enough to knock him off balance. 

__

He doesn’t stay that way for long. He’s lurching forward a second later and Stiles rolls away, out of reach. He fumbles to his feet, keeping distance between them. 

__

When Bucky’s body snaps forwards, he doesn’t duck this time, instead moving to meet him. Stiles’s punch is easily blocked, hard enough for his bones to scream with pain, and a fist slams into Stiles’s gut before he can pull away. It drives the breath out of him, almost brings him to his knees, and he has to fight the urge to throw up, staggering back. 

__

It’s useless. He couldn’t defend himself against a wild dog right now, let alone Bucky fucking Barnes. But he still presses forward again, this time bluffing with a right hook before he drives his left fist up towards Bucky’s chin. 

__

Cold, smooth fingers snag his wrist, squeezing it like a vice. He barely registers what’s happening, just that his body is being twisted, then pulled back against a hard chest, his arm pinned behind his back, bent upwards at an uncomfortable angle. 

__

He squirms, skin skidding against metal, but Bucky doesn’t let up at all. He increases the pressure, pulls just a little bit more, until Stiles’s shoulder starts to protest. 

__

He takes a deep breath, head rolling forward as he tries to focus past the ache. He needs to think. No, he needs to _act_. He exhales slowly. 

__

And then slams his head back. 

__

His head throbs at the impact. There’s a horrible crunching sound and Stiles is gratified by the sensation of something hot and wet splattering across his neck. He can’t help but grin in satisfaction as the grip on his wrist lightens up just a fraction, enough for him to manoeuvre his other arm until he can snap his elbow back into Bucky’s ribs. 

__

It doesn’t even make him flinch, the fucker, but he does release Stiles’s wrist, presumably to try and sort out the blood gushing from his nose. Stiles turns, uses his whole body to grab Bucky and _push_ , until they’re both tumbling to the ground. 

__

He ends up straddling him, but then he freezes, mind going completely blank. When he looks down at Bucky’s face, he grits his teeth. 

__

He’s not an idiot. He knows he never stood a chance against Bucky. He knows he never could have landed a single hit if Bucky had been _really_ defending himself. He’s humouring Stiles, seeing what he’s got, testing him. 

__

It’s… _annoying_. 

__

He looks at Stiles. “You have no idea what to do now, do you?” he says dryly. 

__

Stiles shrugs. “Not really, no. Clint and I didn’t get this far. Do I punch you? Headbutt you again?” 

__

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he drawls. “You’ve got a skull thicker than steel, pal.” 

__

“Good. I hope it hurt, you asshole.” 

__

The sound of footsteps interrupts any reply Bucky might offer and Stiles leans back slightly, looking up at Steve. 

__

He pauses in the doorway, raising an eyebrow at the sight of Stiles straddling his best friend. He takes in the blood all over Bucky’s face and clothes and the lingering anger and frustration in Stiles’s expression. 

__

“Am I interrupting something?” 

__

Stiles looks down at Bucky, half tempted to rat him out simply out of spite, but he’s more mature than that. Instead, he gets to his feet, hand going to his still aching stomach. 

__

“No,” he says. 

__

“Actually, yeah,” Bucky argues. “Steve, your fella is a dirty fighter.” 

__

Steve grins. “Good.” 

__

“ _Good_? I’m surprised he didn’t fuckin’ bite me.” 

__

“I thought about it, but I didn’t want to risk catching anything,” Stiles replies. “Does your nose feel better yet?” 

__

“Yeah." 

__

Stiles sighs. “Shame.” 

__

Steve looks between them, unimpressed, so Stiles shuts his mouth. Bucky’s an asshole, but he’s…well, he’s Steve’s asshole. He doesn’t want to make things weird for Steve by being obvious about the fact that he can’t stand his best friend. That’s a shitty thing to do. 

__

“When does Clint come back?” he asks. 

__

“Couple of weeks,” Steve replies. 

__

“Cool. That gives me chance to practice, get some solo training in,” Stiles says, giving Bucky a pointed look. He hopes the _fuck off_ in his message is loud and clear. “Thanks for the…help.” 

__

Bucky gets back to his feet, grabbing a towel to wipe at the blood on his face. “I’m glad you appreciate it,” he shoots back, a little smirk on his mouth. 

__

_Asshole_. 

__

Stiles narrows his eyes. “You were wrong.” 

__

“About?” 

__

“If you hadn’t held back, pulled your punches, I’d be jam on the floor right now,” Stiles says. “So, you were wrong. You totally coddled me.” 

__

The look on Bucky’s face is full of annoyed distaste and Stiles smirks, feeling a little victorious. He hadn’t brought a towel with him, but he wants the blood off his neck, because _gross_ , so he heads for the door. 

__

Steve’s watching him closely, but his shoulders relax when Stiles reaches out, giving a fond pat to his chest on his way past. He doesn’t follow Stiles, which is good; he needs some time to cool off, let his temper fizzle out. 

__

He takes a shower, washing the blood off thoroughly before letting the beat of the hot water on his skin soothe his sore muscles. He only gets out when the steam starts to make him feel a little lightheaded. 

__

By the time Stiles is dried and dressed, he’s exhausted. He slides into bed, half expecting to be asleep before Steve gets back, since he’d been in his workout gear when he’d got to the gym. His idea of a workout can last for hours, especially when he needs to relieve some tension by beating several shades of hell out of some poor punching bag. 

__

To his surprise, though, Steve steps into the bedroom less than ten minutes later. He’s not sweaty at all and he sits down on the edge of the bed. 

__

“Wanna tell me what that was all about?” he asks. 

__

Stiles lifts his shoulder in a shrug, instantly regretting it when a dull ache throbs through the joint. “Bucky doing me a solid and helping me out.” 

__

Steve looks at him for a long moment, gaze sharp, and Stiles resists the urge to hold his breath. Finally, Steve sighs, not looking very happy but letting it go for now. 

__

“I’ll get the Deep Heat,” he says, getting to his feet. 

__

Stiles manages an incoherent, vaguely grateful mumble. By the time Steve returns with the tube, he’s already dead to the world. 

__


	6. Chapter 6

It’s only been a couple of months since Stiles last set foot in _Bernie’s_ , but the second he walks through the doors, he can’t help but smile, happiness swelling in his chest.

It almost feels like coming home.

It’s a Friday night, so the bar is crammed full of people. Loud music blasts over the speakers and the place stinks of beer and grease and sweat. There’s a crowd of students at the bar, all fumbling their way through ordering with fake IDs, and Bernie herself looks about ten seconds away from rolling her eyes, but she’s humouring them for now. There’s no way she’ll actually serve them alcohol, but she’s not kicking them out yet, either. A group of older students, kitted out with genuine IDs, take up a couple of booths, cheering loudly at some guy knocking back shot after shot.

And there, sat at their usual booth, tucked into the back corner, are Stiles’s friends.

Grinning, Stiles returns Bernie’s cheerful wave and pushes his way through the people who have given up trying to find a seat in favor of dancing, making out, or generally just getting in the way in the middle of the bar. 

Scott notices him first, almost knocking over his beer as he raises his arms in an enthusiastic cheer. Then he scoots up, squishing in with Malia and Isaac until there’s space for Stiles to wedge in at the end of the seat.

He hasn’t seen most of them in what feels like forever, even though he’s talked to them pretty much every other day on social media. Erica’s profile picture had been changed to one of her with dark locks last week, but tonight, her hair is back to golden blond, curled around her shoulders with a new fringe hanging over her dark eyes. She’s wearing the leopard print scarf Stiles had got her years ago for her birthday, except she’s fashioned it into some kind of backless crop top, tied around her neck and draping over her front. 

Next to her, Boyd lifts his bottle in silent greeting to Stiles. He’s added to his sleeve since Stiles last saw him, an intricate wolf tattoo curling around his forearm. His other arm is tossed carelessly over the back of the booth. 

Isaac’s wearing a scarf, despite it being so hot in the bar that sweat is already starting to prickle at the back of Stiles’s neck, because he’s a pretentious asshole like that. But his smile is genuine when he gives Stiles a nod. 

Derek doesn’t even look at Stiles, too busy locked in a debate with both his sisters. He’s grown his stubble out into a thicker beard and he looks good, happy despite the way he rolls his eyes at whatever Cora says to him. She’s cut her hair into a bob, but it’s still not quite as short as Laura’s, whose dark hair curls behind her ears, slightly longer strands framing her jaw. 

In contrast, it looks like Malia’s trying to grow her hair out, and she’s dyed its usual honey color into a darker brown shade. Her hands look rough, the skin chapped, and there’s a bruise peeping out from the bottom of her shorts; she’s been rock climbing recently. 

Lydia’s the only one not sandwiched into the booth. She’s pulled up a stool to the end of the table, her legs crossed elegantly, her fingertip running along the edge of her cocktail glass as she watches Derek lose his argument, her lips curling with amusement.

Even Jackson’s there – he’d messaged Stiles a couple of days ago, letting him know that he was going to be in town for a week – and he doesn’t acknowledge Stiles, too busy rolling his eyes at Danny’s joke, but he can’t quite hide the way his lips tug into a reluctant smile.

Stiles sighs. He can’t help it. His friendship group hasn’t been together like this in what feels like forever and he’s _missed_ them, missed the normalcy of just hanging out with them in their favorite bar, a giant platter of Bernie’s famous spicy buffalo wings in the middle of the table for them all to share.

Scott grins at him, wordlessly sliding a bottle across the table. “Got you a beer. Bernie says she misses your pretty little face.”

“It _is_ pretty,” Stiles agrees, taking a pull from his beer. “So, did ya miss me?”

“Like a hole in the head,” Isaac quips.

There’s a moment’s pause, the mood sobering, and Isaac winces at his poor choice of words. He’s opening his mouth to say something else when Stiles gives a snort of laughter.

“Dick,” he says, and he really _has_ missed them way too much, because there’s blatant fondness when he speaks to Isaac which, ew. 

“So,” Lydia says, taking a sip of her cocktail. “How many people are watching us right now?”

Stiles shrugs. “No idea,” he replies. “But that guy by the bar, the one with the baseball cap on? He’s totally an agent.”

She twists in her seat, not bothering to be discreet as she eyes the guy with interest. “How can you tell?” 

“Because he was in the same restaurant as Steve and me yesterday, and I nearly bumped into him at the grocery store two days before that,” he says with a shrug. “Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence…three times is a pattern.”

“He’s cute,” she offers. “But clearly terrible at the covert thing.”

Stiles grins. “Nah, Steve’s just been teaching me to be more observant, so I notice these kinds of things.”

It takes him a second to realize the table has gone very quiet. For a second, he tenses, gaze snapping around the bar, looking for whatever it is that’s spooked his friends before he realizes what has their eyes widening.

Even dressed in casual jeans and a sleek leather jacket, Natasha is unmistakeable with her red hair and sharp, watchful gaze. The chatter in the bar slowly fades as more people notice first her and then the guy behind her.

Steve hasn’t bothered with his usual glasses and cap disguise, but he is dressed down, in jeans and a white T-shirt. 

He really needs to find shirts that fit him better. It’s just too distracting.

Stiles eyes the booth, unsure how they’re going to fit them both in – he’d been expecting Steve, since he invited him and all, but not Natasha – but then Isaac practically scrambles to his feet, almost tripping over his own legs as he squeezes out of the booth.

“Here, you can have my seat,” he tells Natasha. “Can I, uh, can I get you a drink? A beer? Or a cocktail? Vodka?”

Natasha tilts her head. “Vodka,” she repeats. “Why? Because I’m Russian?”

Isaac’s eyes widen, red creeping into his cheeks, and he stutters for a second, almost swallowing his own tongue in his effort to dig himself out of his hole.

Then a slow smirk spreads over Natasha’s lips and Stiles can’t help but laugh, shaking his head. 

“I’ll take a beer,” she says.

Isaac gives a jerky nod and disappears into the crowd. Stiles laughs again, then looks up at Steve.

“Want to sit here?” he asks, offering a wink. “I can sit in your lap.”

Steve just smiles. “I can stand.”

The guy at the booth next to theirs suddenly stands up, clumsy from a little too much booze. He’s staring at Steve with an awed expression and he staggers in his haste to scrape his stool across the floor, tucking it against Stiles’s booth.

“Here,” he says, voice a little squeaky. “Least I can do for a hero. Uh, thank you.” He even does a little salute.

As Steve offers his hand for a shake, all humble and polite as he thanks the other man, Stiles meets Lydia’s gaze.

“This is my life now,” he says.

“Poor baby,” she replies, entirely unsympathetic. 

Natasha gets settled in the spot Isaac vacated. Malia doesn’t even bat an eyelid, but Danny goes very still, looking like he has no clue how to react to a deadly former-spy-turned-superhero sitting next to him.

Steve sits on the donated stool, his knee bumping against Stiles’s. His arm rests casually over the back of the booth, knuckles gently brushing against Stiles’s shoulder.

“So,” Stiles says. “Guys, I probably don’t need to introduce Steve or Natasha. Steve, Nat,” he says, grinning when Natasha’s eyes narrow at him, “These are my friends. You know Scott and Allison, and that’s -.”

“I know their names,” Natasha says. 

“You do?” Laura asks, looking adequately concerned by that.

“You have files,” Stiles replies with a sage nod.

Natasha shakes her head. “No, they’re just in your file,” she corrects, then looks at Laura. “You’re Laura Hale. Derek’s sister. And Derek is Stiles’s ex.”

Derek shifts slightly in his seat at that, but his expression doesn’t change. 

“ _Years_ ago, yeah,” Stiles says. “When I was eighteen.”

“And you’re Malia,” Natasha glances at her. “Derek’s cousin. And Stiles’s other ex.”

“I was adopted,” Malia says.

“And I didn’t _know_ she was related to Derek at the time,” Stiles adds quickly. “Please tell me that my file is very clear on that. I don’t want anyone who reads it thinking I’m a weirdo.”

“Yeah,” Jackson drawls. “ _That_ ’s why people would think you’re a weirdo.”

Stiles, in all of his maturity, sticks his tongue out in response. “Fuck off.”

“You’re Jackson. Another ex.” Natasha raises an eyebrow at Stiles. “Are you friends with all of your exes?”

“Only my favorite ones,” he replies cheerfully.

Derek presses a hand over his heart. “So sweet,” he quips. 

Natasha’s gaze flicks over the three of them again. “You have a type.”

“Oh, I know,” Stiles agrees with a nod. “I’m a sucker for beautiful, muscular, emotionally constipated assholes.”

“Thanks,” Steve says. “I think.”

“Oh, no, babe, you’re the only one who _doesn’t_ fit my type,” Stiles replies with a grin, patting Steve’s knee. “You’re beautiful, muscular, and _not_ emotionally constipated. I’ve finally grown up and sought out a healthy relationship. Go me.”

Danny feigns wiping a tear from his eye. “So proud of you.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “And the asshole part?”

“ _Well_ …” Stiles draws the word out. 

Steve laughs at that, leaning closer to bump his nose slightly against Stiles’s temple. It’s tender and ridiculously affectionate, and Stiles is a huge sap because he _loves_ it. 

“Okay, if we’re gonna keep talking about my spectacularly disastrous dating history, I’m gonna need at least two more beers,” he says.

One of the many things Stiles loves about his friends is their resounding ability to take pretty much anything in their stride. Once the drinks start flowing and the usual boisterous chatter resumes, they treat Steve and Natasha like another couple of _Bernie’s_ regulars instead of two of the most famous people in the world. 

Within a couple of hours, Stiles is pleasantly buzzed, Natasha’s locked in an arm wrestle with both Derek _and_ Boyd, her expression smug as neither of them can get her arm to budge a single inch, Erica and Cora are arguing about whose turn it is to buy a round, and Scott’s taking it all in with a happy, relaxed expression that Stiles is pretty sure must mirror the look on his own face.

Stiles turns to Steve with an easy smile, but it fades a little when he sees the distant expression on the other man’s face.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

Steve blinks once, then turns to look at him. He nods. “Yeah. Just…reminds me of a different place. A different time.”

Stiles gazes at him, quiet. He’s been to the Captain America exhibit twice, once on a school trip a decade ago, and once with Steve. It’d been sad and incredible all at once; his heart had ached for Steve, seeing the look on his face as he was faced with all of his own memories, his own life and losses splashed out in meticulous detail in a museum display for the whole world to see, and yet he’d insisted on staying, murmuring stories in Stiles’s ear, going into more detail about each fact and photo in the exhibit.

There’d been one particular photograph. Of another bar, but this one in Europe, in a completely different time. A time when Stiles’s _dad_ hadn’t even been alive. It showed Steve, Peggy Carter and the Howling Commandos in black and white, grainy detail, sat around a table littered with finished drinks, grins on their faces. 

He wonders if that’s what Steve is thinking about right now, if he’s remembering an evening just like this, with the friends he’s lost. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says quietly. 

Steve shakes his head slightly, pressing a quick kiss to Stiles’s temple. “Another drink?”

Stiles nods. “Sure. Thanks.”

He watches Steve get up and head over to the bar, a familiar ache in his chest. He wishes he could ease Steve’s grief, but he knows all he can do is offer his support and comfort. Still, he hates when Steve gets that lost expression on his face. He has the kind of face that should only ever be smiling. He deserves that sort of happiness.

“Stilinski,” Jackson says, watching Steve go with a shake of his head. “I can’t believe you’re tapping that.”

Stiles throws half a buffalo wing at him. “Don’t be crude. Steve has _really_ good hearing.”

Jackson wipes blue cheese sauce off his shirt, frowning. “This cost eighty dollars, you dick.”

“Really? You spent that much? Shame, ‘cause it does nothing to improve your personality.” 

He snorts at that, shaking his head. “No, seriously. He’s from the forties, right? I mean, what’s he like in bed?”

“Jackson,” Stiles says, a warning note threading through his voice. 

“Is he better than me? He can’t be. He looks like he’d faint at the mention of a blowjob.” When Stiles just glares at him, Jackson leans forward. “C’mon. Tell me I’m better than Captain America in bed. I’ll get a T-shirt made up.” 

Allison makes a disgusted sound, punching Jackson in the arm hard enough to make him wince. “You’re an ass.”

“First of all,” Stiles grits out. “They had sex in the forties, Jackson. And, secondly, Steve almost has a filthier mind than _me_. He’s not some blushing prude, you asshole.” 

Jackson stares at him for a moment, eyes way too sharp, way too _knowing_. The fucker has always been way too good at digging Stiles’s quirks out; he knows him more intimately than Stiles is strictly comfortable with, even though their break up had actually been pretty amicable, and they are technically still friends.

“Holy shit, you haven’t screwed him yet, have you?” he says, surprised. 

Stiles’s patience snaps. “Jackson, it’s really none of your business, so _shut the fuck up_.”

Jackson has never been good at leaving things well enough alone. He’s a lot like Stiles in that way, poking and prodding at things until they blow up in their faces. He opens his mouth to say something, but then the sound of bones cracking very loudly cuts through the noise of the bar.

Every set of eyes around the table swivel to stare at Natasha. Her gaze is locked on Jackson as she finishes popping her knuckles, one at a time, slow and deliberate. 

Jackson, at least, has also always been smart. He eyes Natasha for a moment before wisely shutting his mouth, leaning back. 

Steve returns a couple of minutes later, a round of drinks clutched carefully in his arms. He hands them out, but his gaze doesn’t stray from Stiles’s face as he sits down. When Stiles finally dares to look back at him, his head gives a little questioning tilt. 

Stiles exhales slowly, shrugging in response. He grabs the fresh bottle of beer in front of him, tipping his head back as he gulps down half of it in one go.

He needs it after Jackson’s taunting. 

By the end of the night, he’s drunk enough that he needs to lean into Steve’s side, but he’s nowhere near as wasted as most of his friends. Only Lydia’s still sober, watching them all with a kind of amused smugness. Probably because, unlike Scott, Jackson and Laura, she won’t have to deal with a pounding hangover at work in the morning. 

There’s a round of goodbyes and tight, drunken hugs. His one with Scott lasts the longest, the two of them swaying slightly, clapping each other on the back before finally separating.

Jackson doesn’t get a hug, because he’s a shithead. Isaac doesn’t get one either, but only because he gets a little twitchy with physical contact, so Stiles is always careful not to get too far into Isaac’s space.

Steve helps him into the back of a taxi. He’s not even slightly buzzed, which is kind of incredible, but then Stiles remembers reading somewhere that Steve can’t get drunk after the whole Project Rebirth thing, and, _wow_ , that must suck. Natasha’s not the slightest bit tipsy either, even though she’d been matching Stiles drink for drink, including shots of the stuff Bernie swears is all above board but tastes like paint stripper and packs a punch harder than any bathtub gin Stiles has tried before.

He leans against Steve, nuzzling into his side. “My friends like you,” he mumbles. “’M’glad. Love you.”

Steve presses a kiss to the top of Stiles’s head. “I love you too.”

Natasha eyes the both of them. “If he’s sick, I’m not going to help clean it up.”

“If he’s sick,” the cab driver grunts, “you’re paying for the valeting.”

“Bill it to Tony Stark,” Stiles slurs, closing his eyes. “He’s rich as fuck.”

Steve’s shoulders shake slightly as he laughs. Stiles must fall asleep at some point, because when he opens his eyes again, Steve’s helping him into bed. Steve helps him out of his shoes, then watches, amused, as Stiles squirms out of his jeans and shirt before flopping over onto his face.

“Get over here,” he mumbles.

He feels the bed dip as Steve climbs into it, but before he can wriggle up into Steve’s space, he falls asleep.

***

Within one second of waking up, Stiles remembers that he’s twenty five, and definitely starting to creep past the age of being able to drink like a fish without paying the price for it the next morning.

His head is pounding, and he feels a little shaky, limbs weak. Slowly, he peels his eyes open, then slams them shut again when the light sears into his skull and his stomach rolls, nausea crashing through him.

It takes him almost half an hour to slowly haul himself out of bed. He can’t quite bring himself to search for clothes, but he’s wearing boxers, so he figures his modesty is appropriately protected. His mouth tastes like death. He needs water. Water and Tylenol, then coffee.

Like, a gallon of coffee.

He shuffles out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen. Steve’s up, whistling loudly as he cooks. The smell of raw meat and grease slams into Stiles and he stops short, almost heaving before the sudden rush of nausea fades a little.

“You _bastard_ ,” he croaks.

Steve grins. “Morning,” he replies. “I take it you don’t want some bacon, then?”

“Later.” He fumbles until he finds one of the kitchen stools and sits down, slumping over the counter. “Coffee first. Food when I don’t feel like roadkill.”

Steve doesn’t look the slightest bit commiserating, but he does slide a glass of water and some Tylenol across the counter. Stiles pops the medicine in his mouth and gulps it down with the entire glass of water. It’s cold enough to make his head throb unpleasantly for a moment, but it at least makes his tongue taste less fuzzy and gross.

“I’m too old for Bernie’s hooch,” he decides. “Death would be preferable to this.”

Steve laughs, loud enough to make Stiles wince. He carries on cooking, flipping bacon in a pan. It’s about the only thing he can cook without risking poison control being called out. 

Now Stiles is slightly more alive, he notices the tension in Steve’s body, the slight downturn of his mouth. His gaze is a little distant as he butters a couple of slices of bread, clearly distracted by dwelling on whatever it is that’s bothering him.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “What’s up?”

Steve pauses, mouth settling into a thin line. It takes him a moment to reply. “We’ll talk about it later.”

A sliver of ice slides into Stiles’s gut. “Uh oh,” he says. “That’s never a good thing to hear in a relationship.”

Steve glances over at him. “You’re not feeling well,” he says. “We’ll talk about it when you’re up to it.”

“That’s very much _not_ reassuring.” Stiles hesitates, then asks, “Is this _the_ talk?”

Steve looks at him blankly. “The talk?” he repeats.

“Whenever you hear the whole _we need to talk_ thing, it’s never a good sign.” Stiles explains, surprisingly calm despite the worry twisting his belly into nauseating knots. “It’s usually a sign that the _it’s not you, it’s me_ speech is coming.”

Steve does get _that_ reference, at least. “No,” he says quickly, and he reaches out, resting his hand briefly on top of Stiles’s. “It’s not that kind of talk.”

“Okay.” That’s a little more reassuring, but Stiles still watches Steve warily. Whatever it’s about, it’s obviously serious, and Stiles really needs to figure out where he fucked up so that he can fix this. Even though he really, really wants to run away, just a little bit. He’s never been good at confronting things he knows will suck. “Later, then.”

Steve nods, attention returning to the bacon. He saves it just before it starts to burn, layering it on the bread before squishing them together in a sandwich. 

Stiles is already starting to feel a little less hungover, the sharp jolt of panic from Steve’s words just the right amount of adrenaline he needs to flush the worst of it out of his system, but there’s no way he can eat now. His stomach feels too tight, too twisted up, for him to try and force anything down his throat. 

Instead, he slides off the stool and retreats back into the bedroom, trying to ignore the doubt screaming through him.

***

Stiles is in his mid-twenties.

He’s a grown ass man. He’s a law student; he has, up until recently, handled his own rent and bills with mostly success, and despite the couple of failed relationships he has under his belt, he thinks he’s learned from them, that those failures have helped him mature and grow into a better person.

So, really, he has no fucking clue why he’s hiding out in the private theater.

He’s more than a little frustrated with himself. He’s never been great at confronting things he knows will end badly, but his relationship with Steve is worth a little discomfort. He wants to do the mature thing and talk it out with him, to fix whatever it is that had caused Steve’s mood at breakfast.

And yet he can’t bring himself to leave the theater.

It’s self-doubt, he knows that, and it pisses him off. He’s mostly past that kind of wobbly self-esteem shit, but being with Steve, loving Steve as much as he does, he can feel it gnawing at him. Even though Steve had promised that he isn’t planning _the talk_ , Stiles still worries. The thought of Steve breaking up with him, or putting some space between them, or even just the thought of Steve being disappointed or upset with him…it really fucking sucks. Stiles isn’t quite ready to handle that.

There’s not even a movie playing on the huge screen. Instead, the large room is dark, and Stiles stays curled up in one of the squishy chairs, messing around on his phone.  
When a stupid cupcake game can’t distract him anymore, he pulls up his social media. Allison is online, so he shoots her a quick message.

_Stiles [12:47]: say, hypothetically, you’re pinned to the ground by someone with super strength and, hypothetically, a metal arm. how would you get him off?_

Little dots appear instantly, and Stiles smiles slightly, getting more comfortable in the chair, letting his legs hang over the side. Her reply pops up a second later.

_Allison [12:47] hypothetically?_

Stiles doesn’t know how she can pack so much amusement into one typed word, but he loves it. 

_Stiles [12:48] of course_

_Allison [12:48] stab him_

Stiles pauses at that, then decides to amend his question. 

_Stiles [12:49] okay, say, hypothetically, you’re NOT someone who literally keeps a knife in their boot at all times. then how would you do it??_

The little dots flicker to life, disappear, reappear, a few times as Allison constructs her response. Stiles can practically see the defensive look on her face. 

_Allison [12:51] it’s New York. Knives are practical._

_Stiles [12:51] I never said they weren’t. but…??? how would you get out of it?_

_Allison [12:52] I’d get him off_

Stiles snorts. Yeah, he has no doubt about that. Baseline human or not, technically weaker and slower or not, he thinks Allison could totally take Bucky down if she had to. She’s not just a good fighter; she’s smart, and sneaky, one of the most tactically minded people Stiles knows. Sometimes, it seems at odds with how sweet she is, that sharpness lurking behind warm, dimpled smiles, but Stiles loves that. It’s always fun to watch people underestimate Allison.

_Stiles [12:53] well, yeah, but how???_

_Allison [12:54] no, I mean I’d get him off. I’d found out if he can get me all hot and sweaty in other ways_

Stiles is startled into a sudden, short bark of laughter. He stares at his phone incredulously for a few minutes before he can finally muster up a response.

_Stiles [12:58] there’s something deeply wrong with you_

_Allison [12:59] Stiles, have you seen his thighs? I just want to lick them_

Another strangled laugh chokes in Stiles’s throat. The thought of Allison and Bucky together is _terrifying_. 

_Stiles [13:01] you’re a terrible, no good, evil person. I’m gonna end this conversation now. I need to go scrub my brain_

Allison sends back an innocent smiling emoji and Stiles shakes his head, smiling. As disturbed as he is by the revelation that Allison finds Barnes attractive, the conversation has helped. He can always rely on his friends to chase away the negative thoughts and make him feel stronger, more able to face things head on, even when he really doesn’t want to.  
He adds another quick message.

_Stiles [13:02] thanks, though. I needed that laugh_

This time she sends a kissy emoji in response, with a caption reminding him to go scrub his poor, traumatized brain. He gets to his feet, stretching, and heads for the door. He feels a little more at ease after talking to Allison; he’s ready to go face Steve. His phone buzzes again before he leaves the theater and he glances down. 

There’s another message from Allison. This time it’s just a link; when he clicks on it, it takes him to a video of a self-defence demonstration, teaching just how to get out of being pinned by an adversary, like Stiles had asked her.

Stiles smiles and sends back an angel emoji in thanks. She replies a minute later.

_Allison [13:10] I still prefer my method, though_

***

Steve is on the couch when Stiles enters the suite.

There’s an artist’s sketchbook on his lap, a pencil in his hand, but he looks up when Stiles approaches.

“Hey,” he murmurs. He sets the sketchbook and pencil aside, offering a hand. “Are you okay?”

Stiles nods, taking Steve’s hand. He sits down on the couch next to him. “I avoided you a little. Sorry. I suck at the big conversations.”

“I don’t think you’re that bad at them. You handled discovering who I am pretty well, considering.” Steve’s tone is warm. “And I knew you would come talk to me when you were ready, so I just waited. You should give yourself more credit.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just scoots closer, shifting to lie down with his head in Steve’s lap. His hand instantly goes to Stiles’s hair, fingers carding gently through it, and Stiles relaxes, gazing up at Steve.

“Okay,” he says. “So, lay it on me, big guy.”

Steve hesitates for a second, then says, “You’re not a virgin.”

Of all the things Stiles had been anticipating, he definitely hadn’t expected _that_. He blinks, surprised. “Uh,” he manages finally. “Not last time I checked, no.”

“I thought you were.”

Stiles flounders for a moment, completely knocked off guard. Then embarrassment creeps up his throat. 

“Okay, well, I know I’m not the _most_ experienced person in the world, but I don’t think I’m _bad_ at the kissing and whatever,” he says, tone sharpening a little, humiliation making him defensive. “You thought I was some kind of…awkward virgin? Jeez.”

“That’s not what I said,” Steve replies evenly. “Stiles, you’re an incredible kisser. I love doing those things with you. And there’s nothing awkward about kissing you. I just…every time I took things a little further, you backed off. At first, I thought I was taking things too fast, that you needed to slow down a little, but now, after all this time, when you still pulled back from me…well, I figured you were nervous because it would be your first time.” 

“Oh my god,” Stiles groans. “Steve, baby, no. I’m definitely not a virgin, okay? I thought – well, aren’t _you?_ ”

It’s Steve’s turn to look surprised. “Me?” he repeats.

“Well…yeah.” Stiles shifts slightly. “I mean, you lived in the forties. And then you were in the army, and then you were in the ice, and now…well, I dunno. I just…figured that you can be old fashioned about some things, so I assumed…you know.”

Amusement glints in Steve’s eyes. “Your generation didn’t invent sex, Stiles.”

“Ugh, you sound so _old_ , don’t do that. You’re such a grandpa.”

“We had sex back in the forties, Stiles,” Steve says, echoing Stiles’s own words to Jackson right back at him. 

Stiles winces. So Steve had definitely overheard him and Jackson, then. Fucking fantastic. 

“I know that,” he replies.

“Yes, attitudes were different back then. But that doesn’t mean that casual sex never happened. People approached sex similarly to how people do these days, except back then, certain things were considered more of a scandal.” Steve shrugs slightly. “I’ve had sex, Stiles. Before I was in the ice and after I woke up in this century. Both casually and when I was in relationships.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, closing his eyes. He feels like a massive idiot. “That makes sense.”

“I thought…well, when I overheard Jackson, I realized that you have had sex before. So then I wondered why you were pulling back. I thought I was doing something wrong, or that you were maybe having doubts.”

“What?” Stiles sits up. “Steve, no. It was nothing like that. I want to. Trust me, I really fucking want to. But I was just trying to -.”

“Protect my precious chastity,” Steve drawls, smirking. “So sweet of you.” He tilts his head slightly, expression wicked. “Were you planning on candles? Rose petals? Maybe some romantic music to set the mood while you take my virginity?”

“You are the _worst_ ,” Stiles says with a groan, almost covering his face with his hands. He gently pushes Steve to the side instead. “The absolute fucking worst, you know that?”

“You love me,” Steve replies smugly. 

“I do,” Stiles agrees. “But it wasn’t just the whole…inexperience thing.” Steve gives him a questioning look, so he blurts, “Well, you know, you’re Captain America.”

Instantly, Steve goes very, very still. His expression goes blank, eyes losing that glimmer of amused fondness, and regret slams through Stiles. He wishes he could claw the words back, stuff them back down his throat, but it’s too late. Steve is looking at him, jaw tight, his disappointment palpable.

“I mean, it’s just, it’s a little…nerve wracking, you know?” Stiles babbles slightly, trying to dig himself out of the hole he’s just created. Except he’s only got a spade, and the words that caused the crater had been a fucking bomb. “I mean, being responsible for that, that was a lot of pressure. But also being good. Making _you_ feel good. Sleeping with a national icon is a big deal! Okay, and I let the nerves get to me. Plus…I…well, sometimes I think that this won’t last. Us, I mean. We won’t last. Because you’re _you_ , and I’m me, and there are very few people who deserve someone like Captain America. _Peggy Carter_ was one of them, but I’m…I don’t think I am. So I figured there was an expiry date on this relationship and sleeping with you would make that inevitable heartbreak a lot worse. So, yeah. I kept backing off. I’m sorry, Steve, I’m really…”

He cuts himself off, teeth snapping together as he takes in a much needed deep breath. Steve is completely still, just staring at him, but his expression had slowly shuttered more and more throughout Stiles’s ramble, until he looks nothing like the man Stiles knows and loves. Instead, he looks like every corny depiction of Captain America on merchandise, all strong jaw and hard eyes, ready to face down nazis with nothing but a shield. Being on the receiving end of that expression makes Stiles feel sick.

When Steve speaks, his tone is very calm. “You should stop talking.”

Stiles swallows, gives a jerky nod. “Right. Yeah. I totally agree, great idea. Solid plan.” He pauses. “I’m not making this any better, am I?”

“Not really, no.”

Stiles almost buries his face in his hands. He exhales shakily. “Shit, Steve. It sounds so bad when I lay it out like that, but in my head, it was – I dunno. I was trying to do the right thing, okay? And I let my doubts get the best of me, I know that. I’m sorry.”

Steve just looks at him. Stiles can’t tell what he’s thinking and ice crawls down his spine, settling like a cold rock in his belly. He’s fucked this up, he knows he has, and he has no idea how to make it right. 

God, he’s such an _idiot_.

“Please say something,” he says quietly. “’Cause otherwise I’m gonna keep on rambling, because I’m super nervous right now, and I’ll probably put my foot in it more, and I really don’t want to do that because you’re already looking at me like – well, like that.” He gestures slightly to Steve’s face, not quite able to meet his eyes. 

Steve takes a deep breath. Exhales. When he speaks, his tone is completely even, giving nothing away. “I don’t really throw in with the idea of whether or not someone is _worthy_ of another human being or deserving of their love. Love isn’t like that, and that philosophy will always foster inequality in a relationship. I would never be in a relationship where there was an imbalance, especially one where I am considered _better_ than my partner. That’s not right. I’ve always struggled with considering myself, or being considered by others, as being good enough. The best thing I’ve ever done for myself is move past that way of thinking.” When Stiles opens his mouth to reply, Steve holds up a hand. “But, if it’s something you need to hear, then I will say it, just this once. That despite how _really_ unimpressed I am by the bullshit you just told me, I am with you because you are good enough. You are more than good enough. You are the person I want to be with, Stiles.”

Stiles winces slightly at how pissed off Steve looks, completely at odds with how romantic his actual words themselves are. “Steve, I -.”

“And I could’ve talked this through with you before,” Steve continues. “If you’d actually _talked to me_ about it.”

Oh god. Stiles can feel panic starting to claw its way through his ribcage. “I know. Shit, Steve, I _know_. I’m an idiot. Look, I tend to make mistakes in relationships. I make _spectacularly_ stupid decisions because I’m fucking useless at the whole dating thing and, really, I feel like that is something that should be in my file. Someone dropped the ball there.”

“No one is perfect at relationships, Stiles,” Steve replies. “That’s why you work with the other person, rather than bottle things up.”

“Okay, but I just…I meant it when I said I have a type. All of my exes have been so emotionally constipated they make _me_ look normal. So I knew, with all of them, that the relationship wouldn’t last. So, sex, all of that stuff, was easy, because I didn’t love them, because I already knew that we’d break up. That way, when things inevitably _did_ fall apart, it didn’t hurt as much, you know? But then there’s you. You’re really more well put together and emotionally available than you should be, given your…uh, well, your history. But you are, and I love you, and this is the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had. So it’s different and I don’t know what to do with that.” He pauses, shrugs slightly. “I know none of that makes sense. I swear I’m not usually that…defeatist. But I’m an idiot. You should know that by now.”

Steve doesn’t smile. If anything, he looks even more unimpressed. “But here’s the thing,” he says. “You’re not thinking of what it will be like to break up with _me_. You’re thinking about Captain America.”

“I…wait, no -.”

“Maybe you don’t even realize it,” he says, tone hardening slightly. “But you are. You don’t see me as Steve. _Your_ Steve.” 

The echo of Stiles’s own words is a harsh blow. “That’s not…”

“You were pulling back from me because you were thinking of sex with me as sex with Captain America. You think you’re not good enough for me because you think you’re not good enough for _Captain goddamn America_.”

“Hey,” Stiles snaps, defensive. “That’s not fair. I had the same doubts before I knew who you were.” 

“But it’s worse now. Because now it’s not about being worthy of me. It’s about being worthy of Captain America.”

There’s a lump in Stiles’s throat. He feels like he’s going to cry, but he’s vulnerable enough right now without giving in to that horrible temptation. “Steve,” he murmurs. “I…okay, you have a point. And I’m sorry, I really am.”

“I will never regret taking up that mantle,” Steve says. “I will never regret being a performing monkey in those shows or being a symbol of freedom and hope for people after, when I was fighting, _really_ fighting. I will never regret doing what it took to become the kind of person that can serve their country, who can protect people, keep them safe. And, just as importantly, give them _hope_. Captain America is a part of who I am. A very big, very important part, but it’s not _all_ that I am.” He pauses, shaking his head slightly. “I’m happy to put on the costume and the smile and be Captain America when it matters. I can handle going out into the world outside those doors and have people look at me and only see the shield, not _me_. But I’m still just a man, Stiles, I’m still just _me_ , and I can’t – I _won’t_ – handle having the person I love look at me in the exact same way.” 

He stands, then, gathering his art stuff, and the panic inside Stiles’s chest screams, scrabbling into his throat, choking him for a second.

“Are you leaving me?” He can barely get the words out, but he has to. He has to know.

Steve pauses. The anger’s gone, replaced by an awful kind of resignation, and it’s so much worse than Steve being pissed off at him. He’d rather Steve shout at him than this, this horrible, aching kind of bitterness on his face that Stiles has seen before, except now it’s there because of _him_.

“No,” he replies quietly. “But I’m going to give you some space, so you can think things over.”

The panic withers, just a little, at the reassurance that Steve isn’t breaking up with him. Still, Steve is giving him space, he’s putting the ball in Stiles’s court, and it makes his mind spin and his heart squeeze painfully in his chest.

“Steve…” he whispers.

Steve shakes his head. “Just…think about it, okay?”

And then he leaves, walking out of the apartment without looking back once. The door closes behind him and the apartment is almost silent, save for the sound of Stiles’s trembling breaths.

He looks down at his hands, waiting for those tears to finally start to fall now he’s alone, but they don’t. He doesn’t feel like crying anymore.

He just feels numb.


	7. Chapter 7

“Hey, remember your first ever break up with Allison? Back when we were sixteen? I took you to the woods and we got spectacularly drunk on whiskey I stole from my dad’s liquor cabinet, and it took your mind off of all the emotional shit for a while.”

Scott hadn’t even flinched when Stiles let himself into the examination room of the animal clinic and he doesn’t look up now, just carries on carefully examining a big, ginger cat’s paw. 

“You really need to stop doing that,” he says. “Someday, I might actually have a customer back here.” 

Stiles gestures to the table and the cat currently staring him down. “You _do_ have a customer back here.”

“Human customers, Stiles.”

Scott gently sets the paw back on the table before scratching behind the cat’s ear. It purrs loudly, rubbing into the touch, tail giving a lazy, pleased flick at the attention. It stares at Stiles the entire time, glaring right into his soul, and it’s an old, familiar story; for whatever reason, cats always adore Scott and generally want to scratch Stiles’s eyes out.

There’s a reason why he prefers dogs.

“Yeah,” Scott says. “I remember. I puked all over my new shoes and my mom was pissed. Why?”

“Wanna repay the favor?”

“I’ve repaid that favor at least twice since then,” Scott reminds him. 

“Okay, but…you, me, booze, lots of wallowing in self-pity and avoiding talking about our emotions.” Stiles says. “You in?”

“Do you really think getting drunk is the best way to handle this?”

“Are you kidding? Of course it is. Scott, buddy, I spent all of last night eating ice cream and hugging one of the shirts Steve left behind. It was pitiful, okay? Now is the time for whiskey.”

“You hate whiskey,” Scott replies. “You always bitch about how much it burns.” 

Stiles ignores that, moving to stand next to Scott when his best friend turns to the x ray displayed on a computer screen. He eyes it, not really sure what he’s looking at, but pretty certain it doesn’t look _right_ , at least.

“Is that a break?” he asks, pointing to it.

“Yeah,” Scott replies. “Mr Snuggles here -.”

“ _Mr Snuggles_.”

Scott’s mouth quirks up at the corners. “Yeah. Mr Snuggles here broke his paw last year. Alan fixed it, but he’s still having issues with it, so.” 

“Scotty to the rescue,” Stiles says fondly. “So…whiskey and heartbreak. You up for it?”

“I should probably remind you about the Derek incident, huh?”

_Please don’t_ , Stiles thinks.

He blinks once, innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” Scott drawls. “You don’t remember drinking alcopops until you vomited gross pink stuff all over my car?”

“Hmm, yeah, no, doesn’t ring a bell.”

“So you don’t remember crying over shots of whiskey after that, not because you were upset, but because you didn’t like the taste or the sting?”

“Are you sure that was me?” Stiles asks. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“Huh. So you _definitely_ don’t remember insisting that you needed to go find Derek and give some big, grand _Pretty Woman_ style gesture to show him you were boyfriend material so that he’d actually give a relationship with you a shot?”

“Uh…I’ve never seen _Pretty Woman_ ,” he lies. “And I’m pretty sure Derek has never worn a fancy red dress and gloves, so, definitely not me.”

“Wow. So it wasn’t you who dragged me to his house at two in the morning, so you could try and woo him. Except he wasn’t home. And it wasn’t you who didn’t have anything to woo him _with_ , since I wouldn’t let you try and find a boombox. So you started picking the flowers outside his house to leave for him as some kind of romantic gesture. And _then_ you got arrested.”

“Arrested? Huh, that sounds like a pretty scandalous evening, Scott, I’m proud of you -.”

“Because your drunken rambling and attempted flower theft prompted the poor eighty year old woman across the road to call the police on you. Your own dad had to take you home in the back of his cop car.”

Stiles’s shoulders slump in defeat. “Ugh, yes, okay, but I was _eighteen_. Everyone’s a dumbass when they’re eighteen.”

“Buddy, you’re a dumbass _now_ ,” Scott says, grinning. 

“No whiskey,” Stiles replies. “Pizza, beer, video games and avoiding talking about emotions. How does that sound?”

“Like every Saturday night since we were eighteen,” Scott answers. “Come over at seven.”

“You’re the best.”

Scott gives a little _I know_ kind of shrug in response and turns back to poor, unimpressed Mr Snuggles. When the cat turns it’s glare onto Stiles, he decides it’s probably best to quietly retreat from the room before he ends up missing an eye or two.

He passes Alan on his way out, offering a wave. He gets a bland look in response and he ducks out of the door to the animal clinic before Scott’s boss can give him a lecture on bothering Scott at work. 

It’s raining. The morning had started with dark clouds hanging low in the sky, but he’d hoped to get back to the tower before the rain started. Big, fat droplets spit down on him and he sighs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

He’s feeling sorry for himself. He knows he doesn’t really have much of a right to, since he brought this on himself, but even though it’s technically been less than a day since Steve left, it still sucks. He misses him unbearably.

He knows Steve’s right. Hell, the second he’d blurted out all of his tangled, dumb thoughts and doubts and worries, he’d known how bad it really was. Especially because he’d avoided talking to Steve about it for so long. 

So, yeah, Steve’s right. Stiles had known that much before Steve even walked out of the door. He doesn’t need time to think it over.

But he also knows that being right isn’t what Steve is looking for. Stiles can’t just show up on his doorstep, say “hey, you’re totally right, great job. Wanna fuck?” and expect everything to be okay. 

Steve wants him to see him, to love him, for _him_.

So Stiles needs to respect Steve’s decision to give them both some space. He needs to do what Steve asked him to and think it over. He needs to change the way he sees Steve and get over whatever it is that makes him doubt so much that Steve is in this for the long haul.

So, no big deal, then.

Totally easy.

The rain starts slamming down faster, falling in sheets that drench Stiles in a matter of minutes as he makes his way down the street. In the distance, thunder growls, promising a hell of a storm.

He sighs.

Of course. 

***

Scott provides the beer, Stiles provides the pizza, and Jackson, for some unwelcome reason, provides his presence.

He sprawls out on Scott’s beaten up old couch, leaving Scott and Stiles to sit on the floor. Stiles eyes him as he flips open the lid on the pizza box.

“Why is he here?” he asks.

Scott shrugs. “He just kinda showed up.”

Stiles turns to Jackson. “Why are you here? I don’t want you here.”

“It’s not your apartment,” Jackson replies smugly. 

“No, but it’s Scott’s, and Scott is mine, ergo -.”

“Scott is Scott’s,” Scott cuts in, rolling his eyes. “Play nicely.”

Stiles takes an admittedly aggressive bite of pizza. He slaps Jackson’s hand sharply when he reaches for a slice of his own. “None for you,” he says. “I’m still pissed off at you.”

Jackson snorts. “What’s new?” 

Stiles tugs the pizza box into a protective hold, handing over a couple of slices to Scott. He pointedly turns his back on Jackson, nibbling at melted cheese as Scott flicks through movies, finally settling on some terrible CGI action flick they’ve probably seen a hundred times. 

They don’t really talk, but it’s relaxing. Hanging out with Scott always makes Stiles feel better, even just for a little while. Once the pizza is gone – Jackson, the fucker, had managed to snag a slice when Stiles was distracted opening another bottle of beer - Stiles lies back, hands settled on his belly as Scott clicks straight onto the movie’s sequel.

The opening credits are only just rolling onto screen when Scott finally talks. “So…have you talked to him today?”

Stiles groans. “Beer, pizza and _avoiding_ talking about feelings, Scott. C’mon.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever once managed to avoid talking about _anything_ ,” Scott replies. “It’s pretty disturbing, actually.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to talk about Steve,” he says stubbornly. He meets Scott’s gaze, defiant, but Scott simply looks right back at him, all silent and patient. Stiles’s resolve crumbles in less than ten seconds. “Okay, yeah, I want to talk about Steve.”

Scott claps him on the shoulder, smiling. “Get it off your chest, dude.”

So Stiles does. He lays out everything that happened, every single word Steve had said etched painfully into Stiles’s memory, despite his panic distorting the whole thing. He feels like even more of a dick when he tries to explain himself to other people, but Scott’s been his best friend for practically all his life and never judges him, despite there being a hell of a lot there _for_ him to judge.

Surprisingly, Jackson doesn’t make a snide comment when Stiles finally finishes rambling. Instead, he just shrugs.

“I’m not surprised,” he says. “You pulled the same bullshit with me. It’s why we broke up.”

“Uh, excuse you, no the fuck it is not,” Stiles replies, incredulous. “We broke up because you screwed someone else, you asshole.”

“We weren’t exactly going great before that,” Jackson says, entirely unrepentant. “You knew I was an asshole for years before we jumped into bed together. I knew you were just as much of a dick, too, but we decided to give it a try. But you kept pulling away emotionally -.”

“ _Emotionally_ ,” Stiles repeats. “Fuck, careful, Jackson, you almost sound like you actually experience feelings.”

“And doing that shit,” Jackson says, gesturing to Stiles slightly with his bottle. “I tried to be less of a dick, at least. But you kept putting up these fucking walls, barrier after barrier, keeping me out until it wasn’t even a relationship anymore. Any dating shit went out the window after a month and after that it was just sex. I got sick of trying to break through all of your…whatever the fuck your deal is, so I went somewhere else.”

Stiles almost sneers. “Yeah, see, the polite thing to do would be to end things with me _first_.”

“Probably,” Jackson says with a shrug. “Honestly? I didn’t think you’d care.”

He throws his hands up. “Of course I _cared_ , you ass. Some of us actually have a heart, you know.”

“Sure. But you made sure to never show it.”

That brings Stiles up short. He flounders for a second, frowning. “Okay, well, maybe. But that was with you. You weren’t exactly easy to date either, you know. I was different with Derek.”

Except he hadn’t been, not really. Because Derek had enough emotional baggage to tank any attempts at a serious relationship all by himself, but that didn’t stop Stiles from throwing his own fuel onto the fire. Instead of being patient with Derek, letting those walls come down in their own time, he’d pushed and pushed, until the sex was hot as fuck but completely empty, their conversations shot straight past the ‘passive’ part of aggressive, and after just a few months, Derek had made it clear he didn’t want anything more serious with Stiles.

The sex had carried on for two more months before Stiles had the good sense to stop that, too, before he let himself start to get in too deep again.

And then there was Malia.

That had just been a disaster from a start. Neither of them had wanted something serious; there’d been no dates, just hook ups. They’d had the same kind of issues, the same tendency to keep their guard up, and instead of helping them to connect, it just left them with a huge gaping void between them, even when physically there wasn’t a single sliver of air between their bodies. As weird and uncomfortable as it had been to find out that Malia was related to his ex, it had also been almost a kind of relief, because it meant they didn’t have to have that awkward conversation. They just stopped, and any attraction between them fizzled out, leaving in its place a friendship that’s stronger than Stiles ever could have imagined when he first met her.

“Holy fuck,” Stiles manages faintly. “I’m a _disaster_ at relationships.”

Scott squeezes his shoulder gently. “You’re not _that_ bad. Just really, really dumb sometimes.”

“But I…I mean, it’s the opposite with Steve. I literally wear my heart on my sleeve with him. I tell him I love him all the time. It’s never been like this with anybody else.”

“Exactly,” Jackson says. “You’ve never had sex with someone who you care deeply about. But you love Steve and you don’t know what to do with that. You don’t know how to protect yourself from the fallout, because in the past, there’s _always_ been a fallout for you. So you put your guard up in other ways. Not necessarily emotionally, like with me, but physically. You’ve never let yourself be truly vulnerable in a relationship. And you’ve always chased after people…Derek, Malia, _me_ …who were the same, who wouldn’t allow themselves to be vulnerable, either, because it was easier to let the relationship crash and burn than to let yourself be completely open with someone.”

Stiles stares at him, silent for a few, long moments. “Holy shit,” he says finally. “That was…that was _profound_ , Jackson. When the fuck did you get so smart at this stuff?”

“Therapy,” Jackson replies easily. “Lots and lots of therapy.”

“You’re seeing a therapist?”

He grins. “No. I’m fucking one.”

Stiles throws a pizza crust at Jackson, shaking his head. But as much of an ass as he is, Jackson’s right. He knows Stiles so well it’s unnerving, but he’s really hit the nail right on the head this time.

Steve has let himself be vulnerable in the relationship. He’s so open with Stiles, so trusting, allowing Stiles to see every single part of him, to know him, completely and intimately. It’s incredible, the fact that Steve wears his heart so openly on his sleeve; the fact that he allows himself to be that vulnerable, that _honest_ , without caring a single bit about it because he trusts Stiles not to care either…it’s kind of awe inspiring.

It’s just so _Steve_.

Guilt and regret throbs in Stiles’s chest. Instead of returning the favor, he’s just been putting up walls between them. The sex thing, the Captain America thing, focusing too much on whether the relationship will last instead of just giving it a damn _try_ , all to stop himself from being too vulnerable.

“Oh god,” he manages. “I’m an asshole.”

“You’re not an asshole,” Scott protests. 

“You’re a bit of an asshole,” Jackson corrects.

“I’m a _lot_ of an asshole. Fuck. I don’t deserve Steve.”

Jackson actually facepalms. “That…is exactly what the fuck I’m talking about, you moron. You tear yourself down, so it hurts less when others try and do it for you. You’d rather decide you’re not worthy of someone than actually work at a relationship with them.”

Stiles groans, flopping down on his back, covering his face with his hands. “Stop,” he complains. “I can’t handle a world where Jackson Whittemore hands out relationship advice. Good, sensible, helpful relationship advice. My whole world view is spinning out of control here, guys.”

“Look,” Jackson says, impatience bleeding into his tone. “You can keep doing it, but you’re never gonna be happy. Or you can get your head out of your ass, fix things with Steve, and actually approach a relationship in a mature way for once in your life.”

He’s right. Of course he’s right.

Stiles feels like a grade A asshole, but he doesn’t _have_ to be one. He knows exactly where he’s gone wrong and it’s not going to be easy to fix it just like that, but he can try. He owes it to Steve to try.

Hell, he owes it to _himself_ to try.

“You’re being nice,” he says. “Why are you being nice?”

“I hear it’s good to try out new things,” Jackson replies dryly. “Not sure I like it.”

“Yeah, it’s not a good look on you,” Stiles quips, but he meets Jackson’s gaze, giving a small nod in gratitude.

Jackson’s mouth tilts up in acknowledgement, but thankfully, he seems to have gone right back to being allergic to feelings, thank fuck, because he goes straight on to talking a little too thoroughly about the psychology student he’s been sleeping with back in London, smirking smugly when Stiles rolls his eyes and Scott throws another pizza crust at him. 

Stiles doesn’t have another beer, not wanting it to go to his head. He needs to talk to Steve and he has to be clear headed in order to do that and not screw it all up again.

They finish the movie and Stiles leaves them to bicker about whether or not the third in the franchise is worth wasting time on, patting Scott on the back briefly to thank him on his way out. 

The rain has stopped. The air feels cool and clean. He breathes it in, letting the freshness of it fill his lungs before he gathers the nerve to tug his cell phone out of his pocket, dialling Steve’s number.

He answers on the second ring. “Stiles -.”

“Hey,” he says, feeling a sappy wave of giddy relief at the sound of Steve’s voice. It’s literally only been twenty four hours, but he missed it. “Where are you? Can I come over? We should -.”

Steve cuts him off. “I was just about to call you.”

Stiles blinks. That was unexpected. “You were?”

“I’ve been called in by Coulson,” Steve says. “One of the guys that broke into your apartment let something slip about a place in Louisiana. It’s not much, but it’s a lead. Natasha, Buck and I are going to head there now, see what we can find out.”

“Oh,” Stiles says blankly. “Uh. Okay.”

He wants to go with Steve. It’s about him, after all, or – well, okay, it’s about Steve; Stiles had just been a way to get to him, rather than the actual target. But those assholes had been trying to get to him and now there might be a lead on who, or what, was behind it. Stiles wants to know, wants to find out for himself, if only to stop his mind from spinning at night, worrying about it all.

But he knows what the answer would be. For one, he hasn’t got any kind of clearance, let alone the kind that would allow him to go on a SHIELD mandated operation with three of the Avengers. Plus, what would he actually do? Just stand around and look snarky while the others took care of it? It’s not like he can help. He’d be in the way more than anything.

Stiles doesn’t have a whole lot of pride left, but he at least has enough dignity to now throw himself into situations where he’ll look like a total damsel in distress.

“Okay,” he repeats. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“It shouldn’t take long,” Steve promises. “And I won’t be off the grid. If you need to call me, you can, okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles manages. “Sure. Look, Steve, can we talk when you get back? I know you wanted to give me time to think it all over, but trust me, I’ve done nothing _but_ think, and I just…I really need to talk to you, so -.”

“Stiles,” Steve interrupts gently. “Yeah, we can talk. I’d like that.” 

Relief washes through Stiles, even more refreshing than the clean, post-storm air. “Okay. Call me when you get back? And just…take care of yourself, okay? Be careful.”

“Always am,” Steve replies.

Stiles doesn’t even bother to hold back a snort at that. “Sure you are.”

“I’ll try, just for you.” Amusement curls through Steve’s voice. “And, Stiles? Right back at you.”

The line goes dead and Stiles feels a little bit stung by the lack of 'I love you', but he knows he kind of deserves it. Steve’s probably still giving him space, not to mention busy with the whole Louisiana thing, so it’s likely it just slipped his mind.

Sighing, he zips up his jacket and climbs into the taxi idling at the curb. He closes the door, buckles his seatbelt, and almost rolls his eyes when he glances at the driver.

“Hi there, agent,” he offers, giving a little snappy salute. “You know, I don’t think it’s required to pay someone who isn’t a legit taxi driver. Just saying.”

The agent’s mouth tightens, the only acknowledgement Stiles gets before the taxi pulls into the steady flow of traffic. 

They’re almost back at the tower when Stiles’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He tugs it out, glancing at Steve’s text. He doesn’t try to stop the smile that spreads over his face when he reads it.

_Steve [23:25] By the way, I love you_. 

***

Stiles is bored.

His books are spread out on the bed in front of him, his laptop balanced on the pillow to his right, displaying his favorite study playlist. He has a notebook full of messy scribbled notes he needs to go over, a couple of emails from professors he needs to answer, and he needs to transcribe and take notes from the lecture recordings an incredibly helpful classmate has taped for him. 

But he just can’t concentrate.

It’s been two days since Steve left for Louisiana. He hasn’t even been off the grid, either; he’s sent Stiles texts now and then, checking in, or even just cute little insights into his thoughts on each town they visit. His favorite, because apparently Stiles is completely, disgustingly sappy when he’s in love, are the 'I love you' texts.

But he misses him. More than he normally would – or, at least, he would normally handle it better – because he wants to talk to Steve. He wants to put things right between them. He’s never been good at letting things stew; it niggles at him, boring into his brain until he can’t focus on a single damn thing.

Sighing, he flops back, unable to muster up the energy to care when his leg kicks out, sweeping a couple of books onto the floor. He gazes at the ceiling for a while, thoughts spinning. 

Closing his eyes, he tries his best to get his mind to slow down a little.

“JARVIS?” he murmurs.

“Stiles,” the AI replies crisply. “Can I help you with anything?”

He’d asked JARVIS to call him by his first name, since being called ‘Mr Stilinski’ always weirds him out a little. It reminds him of being a kid and getting in trouble, adults quick to smugly drawl his surname, looking all too happy to inform the Sheriff of the town that his son was being a troublemaker. 

Of course, he hadn’t thought to be a little more specific the first time he asked JARVIS to use his first name. Hearing his legal name had been appalling, but thankfully no one had been around to hear it. Logically, he knows that they probably already know it, since he has a file and all, but at least for now he can pretend. 

“Can you talk to me?” Stiles asks.

It probably sounds dumb and a little bit pathetic, asking an AI to spend time talking to him. But he finds JARVIS’s voice soothing and calming and conversations with him are actually fun. The AI is a literal genius and has access to all of the knowledge of mankind, ready to pull it up in a second. Plus he has that dry kind of humor Stiles likes (he doesn’t know if JARVIS was programmed like that, or if it’s part of his learning and adapting subroutine, but it makes him feel more human, more approachable). 

“What would you like to discuss?” JARVIS replies. 

Stiles hums. They’ve spoken about lots of stuff. Science, technology, philosophy, law, celebrity gossip. Sometimes, he just asks JARVIS to talk to him about whatever, even if it’s something Stiles knows fuck all about. It’s maybe a weird way to relax, just kicking it with Tony Stark’s AI, but it works.

“How about you?” Stiles asks.

There’s a pause. JARVIS doesn’t often pause; when he does, it means something. Either he’s replicating how humans pause while talking in order to imply something – usually pointed judgement, or humor – or he’s talking to someone else. Tony, maybe, to ask permission.

That’s a weird thought. 

“What would you like to know?” JARVIS replies finally.

“I know that pretty much all of your creation and coding and whatever must be super classified,” Stiles says. “But is there anything you can tell me that isn’t on-pain-of-death top secret? It’s just…I dunno. You’re fascinating. I know Stark is a genius, but you’re incredible. I’m very inquisitive. I’ve been told it’s not always a good thing.”

“I’m flattered,” JARVIS says and _there_ is that dry-as-sand wit that Stiles loves. 

He pillows his head on his arms and closes his eyes, letting JARVIS’s smooth voice wash over him. He doesn’t understand even half of the stuff the AI says – Stiles is smart, and he likes to research, but the technological innovation behind JARVIS’s creation is way, way beyond him – but what he does understand is fascinating.

Slowly, he relaxes, his mind slowing down until all he’s focusing on is the information JARVIS is explaining. He doesn’t know how much time passes, but when the room suddenly falls silent, he opens his eyes, lifting his head slightly.

“JARVIS?”

“My apologies, Stiles. Mr Barton requests your presence in the gym.”

Stiles can’t help but smile. He’s actually looking forward to the workout, and Clint is a way less terrifying teacher than Barnes. Plus, focusing on training is just as effective at calming down his thoughts as talking to JARVIS.

“Thanks, JARV. Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

He closes his laptop and leaves it on the bed with his books. He grabs the couple that had fallen to the floor, tossing them onto the pile before changing into his workout gear. His mood feels significantly better as he makes his way to the fitness suite.

Clint isn’t the only one in the room. Tony’s in the boxing ring, sparring with Thor. Stiles hadn’t known Thor was even around. It would be a pretty uneven match, except that Tony is in his Iron Man armor, and it’s kind of incredible to watch them duke it out. 

They keep it limited to the space of the boxing ring, which puts Tony at a disadvantage, but he’s clever and quick. Thor is as tactical as he is strong, though, and it’s hard to see which of them, if either of them, are winning. That much leashed power in such a small space is both terrifying and awe-inspiring. Stiles can feel a crackle in the air, lifting the hair on his arms, and the whine of the repulsors is loud, echoing through the large room. 

“How the fuck,” Stiles says to Clint, “am I supposed to concentrate when I have front row seats to the coolest fight _ever_?”

Clint smirks. “You haven’t seen Hulk and Thor go at it. Or Natasha and Bucky.” 

Stiles watches as Thor moves deceptively fast given his build, rolling to avoid a repulsor blast before throwing himself forward. His arms lock around the armor, driving it into the floor with a loud clash of metal and concrete. Stiles winces, but Tony seems to just shake it off, boot jets lighting up as he shoots backwards, out from under Thor and into the air. His foot connects solidly with Thor’s chest, sending him slamming back into the ropes bracketing the ring. For a second, they look ominously close to breaking, but they hold as Thor easily gets back to his feet, throwing himself back into the fight with an exhilarated grin.

Stiles looks at the wall where Tony’s repulsor blast had hit. There’s a small scorch mark, but no actual damage. The structural reinforcement of this room must be incredible. He knows there are a couple of rooms for the Hulk – not even containment rooms, just rooms where he can do his whole _Hulk, smash_ thing to his heart’s content without wrecking the whole building – and Stiles’s mind starts spinning again, going over the possibilities of how Tony might have renovated these rooms to withstand all of that force.

Shaking it off, he glances at Clint. “Superhero sparring. People would _pay_ to watch this shit. The Avengers wouldn’t even need Tony’s funding anymore. Just sell tickets to see Thor and the Hulk wrestling, you’d rake in millions.”

“I’ve suggested it,” Clint replies. “Cap shot it down.” 

“Buzzkill,” Stiles says sadly.

“Plus, Hulk doesn’t really wrestle. He just kind of…smashes.”

Thor gives a roar that’s loud enough to make Stiles’s bones rattle. It’s an unnerving sound, one that belongs to the battlefield, but when he looks back at the ring, Thor is grinning like he’s having the time of his life. He’s not in his Asgardian armor and it’s kind of weird to see him in Earth clothes – a pair of sweatpants and a tight T-shirt – but even dressed like this, he emits a powerful, other-worldly kind of vibe. 

“This,” Stiles says, “is why I had a poster of Thor on my wall.”

Thor looks up at that, his smile so big and pleased that he looks like an excited golden retriever. It’s very charming and Stiles offers a grin and a thumbs up back, then winces when Tony takes advantage of his opponent’s distraction, slamming into Thor. His arms lock around him as his boot jets fire up again, sending them literally horizontal. He rockets forward and lets Thor go just as they get to the edge of the ring; Thor goes flying over the ropes, landing hard on his back on the ground, and Tony drops elegantly back to his feet inside the ring, faceplate snapping back.

“You owe me fifty bucks,” he tells Clint, smug.

“You cheated,” Clint grumbles, crossing his arms. “If Stiles hadn’t distracted him, he would’ve kicked your shiny metal ass.”

Oops. “Sorry, Thor.”

Thor just gets back to his feet, _still_ grinning. “I was foolish enough to let my guard down,” he replies cheerfully. “The fault is entirely my own.”

Tony steps out of the armor. With a flick of his hand, it collapses into a small suitcase, and he picks it up as he ducks under the ropes, hopping down from the ring. Thor claps him on the back hard enough to make him stumble slightly.

“It has been too long since I have fought a worthy opponent,” Thor says. “You battled admirably, Anthony. However, had I not allowed myself to be distracted, I am certain the victory would have been my own.”

“Tony,” Stark mutters. “How many times do I have to tell you it’s _Tony_?”

Thor just claps him on the back again, looking way too exhilarated and cheerful. He’s keeps smiling, a huge, hearty grin, and it’s both charming and kind of adorable. He’s the God of Thunder, a literal alien, could probably squish Stiles with just his thumb…and he’s _adorable_.

“Fifty bucks, Barton,” Tony says. 

“Bite me,” Clint snips back.

Tony just grins. “In your dreams, Tweety Bird.”

“I will kick your _ass_ , Stark, I don’t give a damn if you’re wearing your shiny iron mid-life crisis or not.”

“Shiny titanium-gold alloy mid-life crisis,” Stiles corrects.

Tony clicks his fingers as he lifts his hand, pointing at Stiles. “See, he gets it.”

“Yeah, when you start calling yourself Titanium-Gold Alloy Man, _then_ I’ll remember it,” Clint drawls.

“I would, but that doesn’t sound nearly as awesome,” Tony says. “And I’m all about being awesome.”

“You just said you’re 'all about being awesome' unironically,” Stiles can’t resist quipping, smirking slightly. “You’re like the poster boy of mid-life crisis. Next you’ll be using the word 'groovy' and talking about how hip Facebook is.”

“Steve’s boy toy is ganging up on me. Why is Steve’s boy toy ganging up on me?”

“I have to take his side,” Stiles replies, nodding to Clint. “He’s about to pummel me into the mat.”

“J, record it. Next time the kid’s being a dick, I want to watch him get his ass kicked.”

Stiles bristles at the word 'kid'. “Try not to bust a hip on your way out. That totally wouldn’t be _awesome_.”

Tony’s barely biting back a grin as he leaves the gym, Thor in tow. He seems to thrive on exchanging little biting barbs, enjoying manipulating words just as much as he likes playing with metal and technology. Clint is _definitely_ grinning when Stiles turns back to him.

“Sorry I kind of cost you fifty dollars,” Stiles offers.

Clint just shrugs. “You can pay it.”

He snorts. “Buddy, I _wish_ I had fifty dollars to my name,” he replies. “My savings are all dried up. Last time I opened my wallet, bats flew out. _Bats_ , Clint. And then there’s the debt. I don’t dare look at the amount of my student debt. Every time I do, I cry, and I’m not even exaggerating. I cry. There’s tears, snot, pleading with several deities to win the lottery…it’s not a pretty sight.”

“Well, that’s depressing,” Clint says cheerfully. “Wanna try and punch me until you forget about it?”

Stiles gives a melancholic nod. “I do,” he replies. “I really, really do.”

He’s getting a little better at sparring. Clint still wipes the floor with him, of course, but Stiles manages to last at least a minute now before that happens, instead of, like…ten seconds. 

After the first three failed attempts, Clint switches tactics, going back to patient, guided teaching. Stiles doesn’t have any trouble focusing now. He _wants_ this, so he pays close attention, soaking up the knowledge like a sponge. He repeats the moves Clint shows him until his body aches, trying to commit them to muscle memory. 

His stamina is definitely better. He finds punching the bag almost meditative, Clint’s occasional encouragement and taunting washing over him as he finds his rhythm, his pulse jerking into time with each steady _thud, thud_ of his fists on the bag. Everything else just drains away. His worries, his concern about his relationship with Steve, his frustration over his lack of control over his life right now, all of it disappears for a brief window in time. 

When Clint eventually calls it quits, Stiles is sweaty, tired and a little sore, but he doesn’t feel like death, like he usually does. Clint notices it too, because he gives Stiles a little pleased punch on the shoulder.

“You’re getting better,” he says.

“I have a good teacher?” Stiles offers.

“Yeah, you are really not a natural charmer,” Clint replies with an amused snort. “Flattery won’t get you out of going for a run with me later.”

“We’re going for a run?” Stiles asks, a little surprised. He’s been using the treadmill of his own volition, but they haven’t incorporated running into his training regime before now.  
“Yeah,” Clint replies. “Fighting is all well and good, but seriously, most of the time if you’re in a situation where you’re gonna need to defend yourself, your first option should always be running.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Running away,” he says. “How heroic. Historically, I don’t do well at the whole running away thing.”

“And how has that worked out for you?”

Stiles pauses at that, then lifts one shoulder in a half shrug, conceding. Okay, so he’s ended up with black eyes, or a bloody nose, more often than he would really like. He’s not as bad at Steve at the whole lack of a flight response thing, and if his life depends on running, obviously he’ll always choose running. 

But something about Clint expecting him to just have to run instead of trying to defend himself makes him feel weak. 

“Look,” Clint says. “If you _can’t_ run, knowing how to defend yourself is smart. But if there’s more than, say, five of them, and they’re all wailing on you, running should be your first method of self-defence. Get yourself somewhere safe, regroup, think about it _tactically_ , and then take them down. I would do the same.” 

That…actually makes a lot of sense. 

“Alright,” he says, mollified. “Well, a run doesn’t sound so bad.”

Clint’s answering smile can only be described as _evil_.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: guns, near-death experience, injuries, blood and canon-typical violence.

It turns out that Clint’s idea of a run is a six mile loop of Central Park while carrying a backpack loaded with weights. When Stiles just stares at the backpack Clint’s holding out, the older man rolls his eyes.

“You’re kidding me,” Stiles says. “That isn’t a run. That’s _torture_.”

“Plenty of people do it,” Clint replies. “It strengthens your core and shoulders, and it’s good experience for if you’re ever in a situation where you need to run while carrying a heavy load, or if there’s something keeping you off balance.”

Stiles eyes the backpack again. It’s not a normal one; it looks designed specifically for this purpose, so it’s easier to carry and will put less strain on Stiles’s back. 

“A normal run just isn’t macho enough for you, huh?” he finally says with a grin, sliding the straps over his shoulders and clipping the others around his middle.

“Fuck macho. Natasha’s the one who showed me how to do it best. It’s good for building strength and stamina, not just the ability to run long distance.” Clint puts on his own backpack. “A normal run wouldn’t push you enough, either. I know you’re a good runner.”

Stiles glances at him. “How?”

“Background,” Clint replies simply. “This will challenge you more.”

Stiles nods, shifting slightly. He’s warmed up and they’d done a little jog first, but he’s already feeling the difference the added weight makes, even just standing still.

“Don’t run,” Clint advises.

“I thought the whole _purpose_ of this exercise was running?”

“You run flat out, and you’ll end up injuring your back or your knees,” Clint explains. “Take it slower. Let the weights do the work in building your stamina and core strength.”

Stiles nods and sets off. It feels a little strange, but he makes sure to match his pace to Clint’s and not push himself to go faster, further, to flat out sprint. Eventually, he gets used to it, but he very quickly understands what Clint meant about the weights. Soon, he starts to feel the difference they make, not just in his balance and speed, but how much quicker he starts to burn out, muscles aching, skin drenched with sweat and his breath puffing out of him in quick, stinging rasps. Even with the specially designed backpack, he can feel the strain in his muscles from carrying the weight, the straps digging slightly into his shoulders.

He pushes on for as long as he can before he stops, bending to brace his hands on his knees. “Please tell me we’re at least halfway,” he gasps out. “I need it. For my dignity.”

“Nope,” Clint replies easily. He looks a lot less wrecked than Stiles, but he kindly doesn’t gloat about it. 

“I think I’m gonna puke.”

“Just breathe,” Clint advises. “Nice and slow. Don’t think about the tiredness, just focus on each breath. There you go.”

Eventually, Stiles manages to straighten without feeling like he’s going to throw up or pass out. They set off again, at a slightly slower pace this time.

Clint tells them when they reach the halfway mark, asking if he wants to call it quits for now, but surprisingly, Stiles _doesn’t_. He’s got his second wind, endorphins and adrenaline and who knows what pulsing through his veins. He’s weirdly elated at just making it halfway and he doesn’t want to stop _now_. So they carry on, taking one more break so Stiles doesn’t accidentally push himself too much, but when they finish the loop, he feels on top of the world. They stop, and he sheds the backpack with a relieved sigh, stretching his sore muscles as he allows himself to cool down. 

“I bet that’s what flying feels like,” he manages, accepting the bottle of water Clint offers him.

Clint gives him a weird look. “I’ve never asked Stark, but I doubt flying feels as brutal as that.” 

“I feel great!”

“That’s the endorphins, pal. Wait for that to pass and then you’ll feel like shit.” Clint follows up that ever so cheerful encouragement with, “Besides, I’ve jumped off plenty of roofs to know that flying feels nothing like that.”

“That’s falling, not flying. There’s a difference.”

Clint snorts. “Not _much_.”

“Uh, yeah, no, huge difference. One ends with going _splat_ on the pavement. The other doesn’t. I mean, unless you’re Tony, I guess. But he has the armor to protect him.” 

“Less rambling, more breathing,” Clint suggests. “Don’t guzzle that water, either. Jeez. How the fuck did you manage high school gym?”

“I don’t like to give up easily,” Stiles replies. “Ya know, the first time we had to climb a stupid rope, I got stuck halfway up and panicked. Hugely embarrassing.”

“But you kept at it and, like some motivational montage in a shitty movie, overcame that and managed to climb to the top?” Clint quips, raising an eyebrow.

“No. I still got stuck. I had arms like twiglets back then. But instead of panicking and getting stuck, I learned to just let go. Bruised ass beats bruised ego, any day.”

Clint looks at him for a long moment. “You know, the more you talk, the more I get why Steve decided to date you. I couldn’t figure it out before. You and he are like chalk and cheese at first glance, but you’re more alike than I thought.”

Stiles grins. “Aw, Clint. That sounds like a compliment.”

“I’m not sure it is,” Clint replies evenly. “Steve likes to throw himself out of planes.”

Stiles jerks his arm so hard he spills water over his shoes. “ _Yeah_ , that, _thank you_. It’s like he has no self-preservation instinct at all. Like, he could very easily use a parachute, but no. He’s such a dork. _My_ recklessness reaches to cloning access cards or sticking my nose into dumb situations. Not taking my life into my hands because parachutes apparently aren’t cool.”

“You’re dating Captain America,” Clint says. “And you let Natasha knock you around on a regular basis, just so you can learn to fight. Buddy, your recklessness reaches a _lot_ further than you think it does.”

“Dating Steve isn’t reckless,” Stiles defends. “It’s logical. He makes me happy. I love him. Ergo, dating.”

And then it hits him. Clint had said dating Captain America, and Stiles’s thoughts had shot instantly to _Steve_ instead. He knows it’s not exactly that easy, that he hasn’t magically moved past that one particular barrier he’d built for himself, but it’s a start, and he feels a little giddy as he grins.

Clint gives him another weird look. “Stop smiling like that. It’s creepy.”

“It’s called happiness, Hawkass,” Stiles shoots back. “Do you crush the dreams of innocent children, too?”

“No, only the ones who are little shits,” Clint replies. “So, most of ‘em.”

Stiles snorts, almost says something like ‘great paternal instincts, there’, but he bites it back quickly, remembering his resolve to forget his suspicion that Clint has a family somewhere. Instead, he finishes his water and tucks the empty plastic bottle into one of the backpacks, shrugging at Clint’s raised eyebrow.

“Single use plastic sucks,” he says. “I can reuse these bottles for Steve’s smoothies or something. Think of the planet, man.”

“I’ve _saved_ the planet. Several times.” 

“And just think, being more environmentally friendly is another way of doing your superhero thing, but with way less chance of maiming, death or destruction. Fancy that, huh?”

Clint throws his hands in the air. “You’re currently living with America’s capitalist sweetheart, you realize that, right?”

“Sure, but he’s _hugely_ changing the game for clean energy. And he has a recycling scheme at the tower.” Stiles replies. “I respect that.”

“You know, you just out preached your boyfriend. Do you know how appallingly impressive that is?”

“Steve doesn’t preach. He charms, or he give you that disappointed look that makes you feel like shit, or he just talks things out in an infuriatingly rational way so that you can’t argue. But he doesn’t _preach_ exactly.” Stiles pushes his hair back, wrinkling his nose at how much sweat is clinging to his forehead. “I feel so gross right now. Where’s the car?”

They’d been driven to the park by one of the agents on Stiles’s security detail, but he hadn’t seen any of them in the park itself. They’re probably still around but backing off a lot more since he has Clint with him, which is decent protection in itself. But the car hasn’t turned back up to collect them.

It’s Clint’s turn to give a huge, unsettling smile. “What car?”

Stiles’s stomach sinks. “I hate you, you know that?”

He just shrugs. “You can tap out any time, cupcake. I’ll call for the car, you can go back to the tower and have a nice soak in a hot bubble bath and drink some hot cocoa. Just say the word.”

Stiles glares at him and Clint just smirks back, fully aware that Stiles _won’t_ do that. He’s determined to improve, to get better, to put himself through whatever hell Clint throws at him in his training, no matter what.

Plus, he’s way too stubborn to give up now. He refuses to give Clint the satisfaction of gloating about it, the smug bastard.

He picks his backpack up again, sliding it back on and clipping the clasps into place. Then he meets Clint’s gaze again, lifting his chin slightly in defiance, and Clint gives a little snort of laughter as he puts on his own backpack.

“Don’t worry. No running, just a nice, scenic walk,” he says and sets off, leading the way.

“Lovely,” Stiles mutters, but he follows. “A nice, scenic walk with freaking _weights_ on my back.”

“If the tourists can do it, you can do it.”

“I really hope the tourists aren’t packing a hundred pounds in their backpacks.”

“A hundred?” Clint actually laughs, the fucker. “You’ve got forty in there. We’ll go up to sixty when you can get halfway through the loop without looking like you’re gonna cry.”

Stiles flips him the bird at that but doesn’t stop walking. He doesn’t focus on each step, doesn’t dwell on the soreness in his body or the sensation of being pulled down by the weight, his body heavy and tight and aching. It’s better than running; he can breathe without gasping like a chain smoker, but it’s still a tough work out. His face feels too warm and flushed; fresh, hot sweat drenches him, trickling over the cooled sweat from before, and he focuses on the thought of a long shower. He feels like his layers of sweat have layers of sweat. He must stink like hell. 

Thank fuck Steve isn’t around. 

Nothing sexier than a sweaty, stinky, asthmatic lobster. 

Clint isn’t silent or encouraging. He keeps up a steady stream of taunting that makes Stiles grit his teeth and fight down on the urge to fucking trip him. 

“I’m gonna have a bath when I get back,” he says. “Long way to go yet, though. You could always call for that car, though. Go have your nice soak.”

“I hope you fucking _drown_ in your bath,” Stiles mutters darkly.

Clint ignores him, grinning as he continues, “And a movie. Popcorn and a movie. Or just straight to bed. A long, hot shower and ten hours of sleep. Perfect. How you holding up there? You look about ready to admit defeat.”

Stiles isn’t. No way. He’ll pass out right here on the sidewalk before he caves. He knows Clint isn’t goading him to actually be an asshole. No, he’s just hit on the method that will actually make Stiles work harder. He’s too stubborn to give in now, his determination ratcheted higher by each taunt, by each of Clint’s comments that imply he’s weak.

Clint plays on that pig-headedness and it works. Stiles barely even focuses on how his body feels, seething instead in fierce determination. In fact, he’s concentrating so hard on forging forward, Clint be damned, that it takes him a second to realize that Clint has stopped speaking.

He starts to turn his head, wondering what game Clint’s got planned now –.

And then he hits the sidewalk.

The impact jars his shoulder, which is still sore from his ‘training’ with Barnes. He grits his teeth, hissing out a breath as he automatically starts to tuck into a roll, forgetting the weight on his back. 

There’s a sound that Stiles can’t figure out the cause of, but alarm bells instantly start ringing in his head, because he just knows that it _isn’t right_.

Hands drag him to his feet, pulling until he feels cold, hard brick against his back. It takes him a second to register that his backpack has gone, and he feels too light with its sudden absence, wobbling unsteadily as his balance tries to readjust to compensate. 

The rush of confusion and panic fizzles out, leaving a weird kind of adrenaline edged calm. They’re in an alley, away from the mouth, tucked away in the shadows and out of view of the sidewalk.

Clint’s in front of him. His backpack is gone, too, discarded on the ground at their feet. Stiles’s eyes adjust to the darkness and he realizes that Clint’s shirt is slightly torn, something dark and wet staining it. 

“Oh, fuck,” he says. “You’ve been shot.”

“It grazed me when I tackled you,” he replies shortly. “Barely a scratch. I’m fine.”

Stiles swallows. Grazed or not, Clint had taken a bullet for him, and that just feels like all kinds of fucked up. He’s grateful, yeah, but he wishes he was better, wishes that Clint hadn’t needed to risk it to keep him safe. 

“How did you know?” he says. He’d heard the impact of the bullet – Clint’s backpack had taken the brunt of it – but no gunshot.

Clint gives him a slightly irritated look as he taps Stiles’s chest. “Saw the red dot,” he replies. “Stop talking.”

Stiles feels cold at the thought of how close it had been. The red dot had been right on his chest. A second later, and his heart would’ve been fucking confetti. 

Clint had seen it and moved like freaking lightning, getting them both to the ground, out of the sniper’s aim, and then into the cover of the alley before they could reload. It kind of boggles Stiles’s mind. He knows Clint is highly trained, he’s seen it in action, hell, he’s been on the receiving end of it, but he’s still more than a little awed at how Clint pulled it off.

_Muscle memory_ , he thinks. _No wonder he’s always trying to drum it into me_.

Clint is silent, expression tight with focus, and then he slips a comms unit into his ear, speaking sharply into it.

“Sniper,” he says. “Located in the building half a mile away, directly north. Forty second floor, fifth window from the right.” 

Stiles’s eyebrows pull together. “How the fuck –?” he starts to ask.

“Bullet trajectory, speed, line of fire, time it took to aim and fire again,” Clint says, pointing to where a chunk of brick closer to the mouth of the alley is missing, which, _holy shit_. “Not that difficult to figure out.”

Stiles stays still, the coldness of the wall seeping through his shirt. It makes his skin feel damp and uncomfortable, but it’s good; it helps ground him. He doesn’t want to be entirely useless right now and freaking out would just be too humiliating. He takes a deep breath and remains silent as Clint speaks into the comms again, but he doesn’t listen in. Instead, he focuses, and _thinks_.

“There’ll be more,” he says.

Clint stops mid-sentence, looking at him. “It’s a strong possibility, yeah.”

“No,” Stiles replies, shaking his head. “Half a mile away? Come on. I know pros can make a shot from a lot further than that and would be a lot better at not giving away their position. You’re fucking good, Clint, but I should be dead right now. You shouldn’t have been able to pull off that save.”

“Thanks for the belief in me,” Clint snips back. 

“Look, we were walking a straight line for at least ten minutes. Plenty of opportunities to take that shot. But they waited until you were looking at me. They waited until we were conveniently _right by_ the entrance to an alley. Why wouldn’t they take the shot when we had nowhere to go to take cover?” 

“It’s a distraction,” Clint mutters. “Fuck. I should have caught that.”

“Well, to be fair, you have been shot, a little bit. Cut yourself some slack.”

He grunts. “Sarcastic fucker. Okay. Distraction. From what? Half the protection detail are already on their way to the sniper’s location, so -.” He stops, shaking his head. “I’m too slow tonight. Fuck.”

Stiles nods. “Half the protection detail are out of the way. Clint, we need to move. We’re not taking cover here; we’ve just been herded right where they want us. We’re fucking sitting ducks.”

Clint relays the information into the comms unit even as he grabs two guns from his backpack. He hands one to Stiles. It isn’t an ICER.

This time, his hands are steady as he grips the gun, keeping it safely pointed to the floor as he follows Clint through the alley. His belly is twisted into tight, anxious knots, but his pulse is surprisingly calm, his breathing slow and even. He can freak out later.

Clint’s already bleeding because of him. 

He needs to be useful.

“Back up is on its way,” Clint mutters to him, keeping his voice low. “But we can’t stay here. They wanted us in here for a reason.”

Surprisingly, Stiles notices that reason in the exact same instant as Clint. On the fire escape, several floors above them, shadows start to peel away from the darkness. 

“Remember what I told you about running?” Clint says.

Stiles is already backing up. From the corner of his eye, he sees a couple of trash cans, considers the idea of grabbing one of the lids; in a flash, he thinks of standard handguns, then the force in higher spec gun cartridges, thinks of the logistics and how easily a bullet could punch through the metal, and the result would be the same as if he had no type of shield: lots of blood, lots of pain, a good chance of death.

He discards the idea just as quickly as it started to form.

Instead, he sprints for the dumpster halfway down the alley, ducking behind it. Better. Not completely safe, but better. He’s hidden from most angles, so hopefully any shots will miss him. 

If they don’t, well…he’s hoping the layers of thick metal, tightly compacted trash, and a larger distance will be enough to slow a bullet, maybe even deform it slightly as it punches through before it reaches him. 

He can hear shots going off. Clint is holding his own, easily, but Stiles tunes him out, listens instead to the clatter of metal just a few feet behind and above him. There’s a lull between gunshots and the thud of feet on concrete is just loud enough for Stiles to hear.

Stiles doesn’t wait to see if Clint is in a position to help him. Instead, he pushes himself into a half crouch. He doesn’t stand, or step out from behind the dumpster; instead, he rocks forward into a hard roll that jars his bruises and brings him up a few feet from the dumpster.

The guy trying to sneak around the dumpster is caught off guard, just for a second, but it’s enough for him to fumble his gun as he tries to adjust his grip and aim it. It gives Stiles the time he needs to fire off his own shot.

Except he doesn’t. 

Because Stiles hesitates too.

The gun in his hand is very real. It’s not a toy. It’s not an ICER. He’s held real guns before, when his dad taught him to shoot. But he’s not aiming at a target. If he shoots now, it will be a _person_ he’s aiming at. It will be a person who bleeds, who falls, who dies, and Stiles had thought he could handle that if he had to, if it’s his only option to save his own life, but now, faced with the reality of it, his aim falters and he can’t bring himself to pull the trigger.

That awful, cold realization hits him in just a fraction of a second, but it’s long enough for the other guy to regain the upper hand.

Stiles has never stared down the barrel of a gun before.

He _really_ doesn’t like it. 

Stiles doesn’t know what squeezing his eyes shut and holding his breath will achieve, but it’s all he can think to do as he braces himself for the gunshot.

Instead, he hears the sharp crack of bone and a pained cry.

Slowly, he peels one eye open. The guy is doubled over, holding onto his wrist, and the gun is lying a few feet away. Stiles’s eyes snap open properly, blink once, and then widen as he just stares as if maybe, if he looks long enough, the puzzle pieces will slot neatly into place.

Clint is still busy. It’s him against what looks like four opponents, but he seems to be holding his own. 

The man in front of Stiles gathers himself enough to let go of his wrist. He holds it against his chest as he searches frantically for the gun, lurching towards it.

“Uh,” Stiles manages, then scrambles forward, blocking him before he can reach the weapon.

Thanks to Clint’s training, Stiles’s punch is clean. The guy goes down, unconscious, but Stiles is smart enough not to take any chances; he kicks the gun out of reach, underneath the dumpster. His knuckles ache slightly and there’s still panic, sharp and metallic, stinging his throat. His own gun is lax in his other hand, useless, because he hasn’t got the damn guts to use it.

There’s a shout from somewhere above him. “Watch it!” 

It’s followed by a grunt and a surprised yell, and Stiles steps backwards just as a body comes sailing down from the fire escape. The poor guy’s arms are actually waving, flapping like they might magically become wings if he wags them about hard enough. He hits the ground and goes silent and still. 

When Stiles manages to hold back the urge to puke from the sound of soft flesh meeting hard concrete, he looks up. There’s a silhouette on the fire escape, three stories up. He’s looking down at Stiles, but then he moves, meeting another opponent head on.

Okay. Not a bad guy, that’s great. Back up is always nice.

Stiles feels a little bit useless. He nudges the guy in front of him with his shoe, wrinkling his nose slightly at the sight of blood. 

There’s a lull and Clint turns towards him. His face is bloody, and he’s got one arm clutched over his ribs. When he meets Stiles’s gaze, his expression is angry enough that Stiles actually gulps. 

A shadow lands several feet in front of Stiles. He barely registers the sight of a bulletproof vest and a creepy, blank mask and knows it isn’t their friendly neighbourhood back up.   
He adjusts his stance, ready to defend himself. He might not be able to bring himself to shoot, but the gun is still a useful weapon. And he thinks he might be able to hold his own in hand to hand combat, if he has to. At least long enough for back up.

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly as the guy lashes forward towards him. 

Another body lands, almost silently, between them, their back to Stiles.

This close, Stiles can make out the costume, the gleaming, deep shade of red and the little points on the helmet. He moves quickly, fluidly, like leashed lightning, his movements perfectly controlled and chillingly brutal as he flips to block a neat roundhouse kick. His own answering kick sends the guy face first into the wall, hard enough that there’s the sickening crunch of bone before he crumples to the ground.

Finally, the alley is silent, save for a few pained groans and Clint’s slightly labored breathing as he approaches. Daredevil just turns towards Stiles, ignoring Clint completely.

“What the fuck is this?” Stiles manages. “A fucking superhero convention?”

“Oh, great, it’s the devil of Hell’s Kitchen,” Clint says. “What, you couldn’t keep to your own turf?”

“You’re nearly _on_ my turf,” Daredevil replies flatly. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Clint bristles. “I could have handled it.”

Daredevil just gives a pointed kick to a guy struggling to his feet. He slumps back down with a groan and, wisely, decides to stay put this time.

Stiles glances over at one of the guys Daredevil had taken out. “Is he even alive?”

The helmet turns towards him. “I don’t kill.”

Stiles blinks, incredulous. “Uh, you threw that guy off a fire escape,” he says. “And you kicked that poor dude face first into a brick wall.”

Daredevil tilts his head slightly, as if focusing, or listening. “They’re alive,” he replies finally, tone short. 

“Okay, but, technically, them miraculously managing to survive isn’t the same as you not actively killing them,” Stiles points out. “I follow the news, y’know. I read about the guy who’s skull you slammed in a door. Twice.”

Even though the eyes on the mask are creepily opaque, Stiles has the impression that Daredevil is almost blinking at him. “He survived.”

“ _Technically_ ,” Stiles says. 

That helmet just keeps on staring straight at him. Stiles has the eerie sensation of being both watched and not watched at the same time. It makes a shiver crawl down his spine, but he doesn’t look away. 

“How’d you know?” Clint asks, breaking their stand-off. “You don’t usually venture outside of your turf.” 

“Friend of mine got approached a few weeks ago,” Daredevil replies. “He was offered a job. Generous pay, in cash, for one sniper job.”

“Since when was the Punisher your _friend_ ,” Clint says with a snort. He folds his arms. “And why didn’t you think to, I don’t know, _mention_ this?”

“You and I aren't friends,” Daredevil replies.

“Fuck, no, we’re not,” he agrees. “Call it professional fucking courtesy.”

“You’re not a professional,” Daredevil says in that same bland voice that almost hides the dry, _fuck you_ tone threading through it.

“Go fuck yourself,” Clint bites back. “This job. Let me guess, take a shot at Captain America’s shiny new boyfriend.”

“Something like that,” Daredevil answers. “But they said they didn’t want him dead. They were very clear on that. He was to provide a distraction, that’s all.”

“What did he say?” 

Daredevil tilts his head slightly. “No.”

Clint smiles grimly. “I’ve seen how the Punisher says no.”

“He didn’t kill anybody. Broke a couple of arms to send a message to their employer not to bother him again, but that’s all. They didn’t approach him again. But he gave me a heads up that something might go down tonight.”

“And instead of giving _us_ a heads up, you decided to just lurk around, so you could jump into the action and pretend you saved an Avenger’s ass.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What happened to staying out of Avengers business?” Clint grumbles.

Stiles can’t see Daredevil’s face, but something changes in his posture, just a small tightening of muscles that gives away how serious he is when he replies.

“They approached the Punisher,” he says. “Avengers business is spilling into Hell’s Kitchen. A civilian could have got killed tonight.” He nods towards Stiles.

“Hey,” he says. “I think I handled myself pretty well. You know, considering.”

“Keep your shit out of Hell’s Kitchen,” Daredevil says, ignoring Stiles completely. There’s a note of warning darkening his tone. 

And then he’s gone, propelling himself off the dumpster to latch onto the fire escape. In a matter of seconds, he’s disappeared into the darkness.

Stiles clears his throat. “Dramatic bastard, isn’t he?”

“He likes to think he’s the shit,” Clint replies tightly. “Usually, he sticks to Hell’s Kitchen and keeps out of the way, and we don’t bother him.”

“What happened to superhero solidarity?”

The sheer offence that flashes across Clint’s expression is almost comical. “He isn’t a superhero. He’s a vigilante. There’s a difference.”

“Being…?”

“He only takes care of Hell’s Kitchen. I’ve saved the world. More than once.”

Stiles pauses, thinking for a moment. “Wait, wasn’t he placed at number ten on that World’s Hottest Superhero list? And you were number twelve?” 

“It has nothing to do with that,” Clint says immediately. “And he isn’t a superhero.” He pauses, then says hotly, “And how the _fuck_ can he be on that list? No one knows what he looks like! His face could look like the result of Shrek fucking a blobfish for all anyone knows!”

“No one needs to see his face,” Stiles says evenly. “That ass says it all.”

That silences Clint for almost two seconds. “You would be an ass man,” he says finally. 

“He did just help us,” Stiles points out. “Honestly, I don’t get it. There is a weirdly high amount of superheroes – and _vigilantes_ – in New York. I mean, Spider-Man does his bit to protect the city. There’s you guys, the Fantastic Four, Daredevil and his buddies in Hell’s Kitchen…it kinda seems unfair to the rest of the world.”

“They have their own superheroes,” Clint says sullenly. “And we _do_ save other parts of the world, if we’re needed. It’s just that most villains seem to like attacking New York. It seems to always be the first step in their grand plan to take over the world. It’s getting a little offensive, actually.” 

“Yeah, sure, but I just don’t get why you don’t just…create one big merry band of heroes, I guess.”

Clint’s expression sobers a little. “Superheroes and vigilantes tend to have…a lot of dark baggage and a certain personality type. It’s not often you’ll find a large group of them that are able to get along. Even teams like ours have their moments. It’s best to just stick to your own business.” He frowns. “Still, some fucking courtesy, even just an email to say ‘hey, don’t go out on Monday night’ would have been great.”

There’s the squeal of tyres and Stiles tenses, heart lurching in his chest, but Clint’s posture doesn’t change. He just folds his arms as footsteps approach.

“Fucking finally,” he says. “You took your time. Did you get the sniper?”

“Already en route to Coulson,” the agent replies. He stops when he sees the bodies on the ground. “Huh.”

“You know what to do, agent. Stiles, let’s go.” Clint holds out his hand.

Stiles stares at it for a second, wondering if Clint expects him to hold his hand like an actual _child_ , but then the older man rolls his eyes and carefully takes the gun from Stiles’s grip. Stiles blinks; he’d almost forgotten he had the damn thing. 

They climb into the back of the car, but it doesn’t start moving. Instead, the agents are busy cuffing and loading the wounded men into the back of a van, another load of agents dealing with some police officers that have shown up.

Stiles glances across at Clint. His face is like stone.

“You’re pissed off,” he murmurs.

Clint slides a dark look his way. “You didn’t take the shot.”

Stiles swallows, turning to look out of the window. “I tried,” he says quietly. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t kill him.”

“Did you ever think,” Clint replies slowly. “That you didn’t have to shoot to _kill_?"

Oh.

He hadn’t, actually.

“He was moving, and I’ve never tried shooting an actual person before,” Stiles offers, defensive. “Even if I aimed for his leg, or his arm, I could have hit something vital, or done enough damage to kill him. All gunshot wounds have the potential to be lethal if you’re not lucky.” 

It’s something his dad had drummed into him when teaching him how to shoot, making sure Stiles knew just how serious holding a weapon like that really was. 

Clint shrugs slightly. “So you take that chance. When it’s him or you, you choose you.”

“I _tried_. But, believe it or not, I’ve never had to actually ponder _shooting someone_ before. A robot is one thing. An ICER is different, too. But actual guns, actual bullets, an _actual person_? I froze, okay? I fucking froze.”

Clint doesn’t reply. The car is silent until two agents return, sliding into the front. One turns in his seat, wordlessly holding up a bag. 

Oh, right. They’ll need to give a report on what happened.

Stiles sighs. “I’m not gonna get that shower anytime soon, am I?”

***

Luckily, the debrief doesn’t take long. He answers their questions, goes into as much detail as he can accurately remember, and turns down their offer of being looked over by medical.

Clint stays behind to talk to Coulson, so Stiles is left alone with the agent that drives him back to the tower.

He’s exhausted, physically, emotionally, mentally, he just feels so fucking drained. He has no idea how superheroes, or vigilantes, do this shit on a regular basis. He wants to just collapse and not think, or dream, or feel anything for at least twelve hours, but he needs to shower first. 

He’s just peeled off his shirt when his phone rings. He almost snarls, but then it registers that the ring tone is _Star Spangled Man_ , and he almost drops his phone in his haste to answer it.

“Steve,” he says. 

“Stiles.” Just the sound of his voice is enough to make Stiles feel a little better. “Are you okay?”

“I was gonna call you,” Stiles promises, “But I just got back, and I stink like a sewer rat. Did Coulson call you?”

“No,” Steve replies. He doesn’t sound particularly happy about that. “But there was a report about gunshots and some SHIELD business on the news. I figured you had to be involved.”

Stiles manages a laugh. “Thanks,” he replies. “I’m flattered.”

“ _Are_ you okay?” Steve’s voice is warm, laced with concern. “I called Clint and he said you weren’t hurt, but…”

“You needed to ask me yourself,” Stiles says softly. “I get it. I’m fine, really. Bruised and battered, but that’s from training. I hit one of them and my knuckles are paying the price, but I’m otherwise totally okay. Clint got shot, though.”

“Only a little bit shot,” Steve reassures him. “He’s had worse. Getting shot is practically a hobby for him at this point.”

“It’s true,” Natasha says in the background. “You should see the scars on his ass.”

Stiles actually smiles at that. “Tempting, but there’s only one ass I’m interesting in seeing.”

“Really?” Steve drawls. “I heard something about your liking the look of Daredevil’s ass.”

“Clint is a liar,” Stiles replies evenly. “But, hey, yeah. I met Daredevil.”

“I also heard that you called him out on his lacklustre commitment to not killing people,” Steve says, a smile in his voice.

“I tend to run my mouth a lot. It’s a problem. Probably shouldn’t do it with people who could snap me like a twig.”

“I like your mouth,” Steve replies. There’s a muttered, muffled voice in the background and Steve snorts. “I can flirt with my partner if I want to, Buck.”

“Damn right you can,” Stiles replies vehemently. “We should have phone sex now, just to spite him.”

“Having Natasha and Bucky here surprisingly doesn’t put me in the mood,” Steve says, tone dry as dust. “Besides, the first time we have sex, I want to see you and touch you, not just hear you.”

Stiles’s mouth goes completely dry. He has to swallow before he manages to talk again. “I bet Barnes’s face is a beautiful picture right now.”

Steve laughs. “He left right around the time you said phone sex.”

Stiles smiles. “So, how’s Louisiana?”

“A bust.” The words are accompanied by a heavy sigh. “Either it was a red herring, or they cleared out ages ago when they realized we’d taken in the team that broke into your apartment building. We’re about to head back.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all damn day,” Stiles says, closing his eyes. “I know we have a lot to talk about. But I just…I could really use you right now. I’ve had a really shitty evening, and I wasn’t even the one who got shot.”

“A little bit shot,” Steve reminds him. “Clint will be fine. And I’ll be with you as soon as I can, okay? I’ll always be there if you need me, Stiles.”

Stiles takes a moment to just breathe, letting those words sink right down into his heart, lifting his soul. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles wakes with a dry mouth, a body that feels like one giant, throbbing bruise, and a warm hand spread over his hip.

He’d tried to stay up after finally showering, wanting to be awake when Steve got back, but within minutes of crawling into bed, his eyes had closed against his will. 

He stays still for a few minutes, just enjoying the quiet and the sensation of Steve’s body against his. He’s shirtless, skin warm against Stiles’s, and he snores quietly into his pillow, body loose and relaxed in his slumber.

Eventually, though, his need for caffeine overrules his desire to just stay in bed forever. Yawning, he squirms out of bed, careful not to wake Steve, and dresses in jeans and one of Steve’s shirts. 

The adrenaline from yesterday has crashed out of his system and now he just feels weary and a little guilty. He gulps down two cups of coffee before he feels energized enough to leave the tower.

He’s getting used to the sensation of being followed. It’s rare that he can actually spot the agents shadowing him, but he knows that they’re there, knows he’s being watched. Even though he knows it’s for his own protection, the creepiness factor still niggles at him a little bit. 

Especially after yesterday. 

How long had the sniper been watching them as they walked down the street, completely oblivious?

The thought sends a shudder skidding down Stiles’s spine and he turns quickly into his favorite coffee place, the familiar smell of roasting coffee beans and baked goods a warm comfort. 

He doesn’t get coffee, but he does buy a box of cinnamon rolls for him and Steve to share for breakfast, and he asks for one of their special muffin baskets. He pays and carries the armful of baked deliciousness back to the tower.

“Hey, JARV?” he says as he steps into the private elevator. “Is Clint in the tower?”

“Mr Barton is currently in the communal kitchen.” 

Sweet. 

The elevator drops him off on the right floor and he makes a beeline for the kitchen. His steps slow, however, when he hears voices. Clint and Natasha, talking quietly at the kitchen counter, and the mention of his own name grabs Stiles’s attention. He stops outside the door, unable to resist listening in.

“He’s a civilian, Clint,” Natasha says. “He’s not used to this. He’s never had to shoot anyone before. Cut him some slack.”

“Cut him some slack?” Clint repeats. “Tasha, all of this training has been for nothing.”

“Clint -.”

“I’m serious. I dunno what the hell he expects to happen, but this isn’t a fucking B rate action movie, okay? He’s not gonna take down a bunch of armed bad guys with some well placed roundhouse kicks and a cute one-liner. He’s just gonna end up dead.”

Stiles flinches at that, chest tightening slightly.

“Give him time,” Natasha advises.

“All of this, training him, trying to teach him to defend himself…it won’t mean a single thing if he doesn’t have the nerve to pull the damn trigger when it matters.” Clint insists. “He can’t handle this, Natasha, and he’s gonna get himself killed because of it.” 

Stiles feels humiliated. Weak. _Angry_. It simmers inside him, hot, stuffing tight into his lungs until he has to really focus on each slow breath in and out.   
They’re trained spies. They have to know he’s here, listening in, and they don’t give a damn. They’re still talking about him. And he appreciates that, on some level; that they at least respect him enough to let him hear it, rather than whisper about him behind his back.

But it still makes him grit his teeth, fingers curling tight around the basket full of muffins until his knuckles turn white.

Wordlessly, he pushes away from the wall and walks into the kitchen. He avoids their eyes as he deposits the basket on the counter.

“What’s this?” Clint says, eyeing it suspiciously, like it might contain muffin-disguised grenades.

“A muffin basket,” Stiles replies tightly. “I wanted to say thanks for the whole taking-a-bullet-for-me thing.”

Clint clears his throat. “Oh. Well. It’s not a big deal.”

Stiles shrugs, leaning against the counter. He flips open the box of cinnamon rolls and bites into one, a little more aggressively than he’d actually intended. Natasha looks at him, faint amusement curling on her lips.

She reaches for one of the muffins and Clint slaps at her hand. “Nope, mine.”

Her eyes narrow at him as she retracts her hand. “There’s got to be twenty muffins in there, Clint.”

“Yep, and all mine. I’ve never had a muffin basket before. You want a muffin? Take a bullet for Stiles.”

“The bullet barely touched you,” Natasha says. 

“Still counts.”

Clint’s joking, trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t do anything to relax the knot of anger in Stiles’s chest. He takes another hard bite of the cinnamon roll, chewing it forcefully as he looks right at Clint.

“Are you just gonna eat all angrily at me?” the archer finally asks, voice an easy drawl. “Or is there something you want to say to me?”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Ugh, testosterone.” She doesn’t leave, just kicks back in her chair to observe them both.

“Did it ever occur to you,” Stiles bites each word out, slow and deliberate, “That you should _teach_ me to pull the damn trigger?”

Clint frowns. “You know how to shoot.”

“Yes! I know how to shoot a _target_. But I’ve never had to shoot an actual person. I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to make myself into the kind of person that _can_ do that.” Stiles leans back against the counter, frustrated. “If you want me to be that kind of person…why don’t you _teach_ me? Instead of making asshole comments behind my back.”

“It wasn’t behind your back,” Clint points out. “And it wasn’t an asshole comment. It was the truth. You’re gonna get killed.”

“So _teach me_ ,” Stiles repeats.

“You’re both idiots.”

Clint’s mouth snaps shut at Natasha’s words and they both turn to look at her. She’s still leaning back in her chair, but at some point, she’d taken advantage of Clint’s distraction to sneak a blueberry muffin. She nibbles delicately at the edge as she looks between them.

“I shoot when I have to,” she says. “But sometimes, lethal force is unnecessary. Some people don’t deserve it. There are ways of subduing someone without killing them. You know that just as well as I do, Clint.”

The frustration fades from his face. “Shit, you’re right.”

“How many weapons has Stark created for us that don’t use lethal force?” Natasha adds. “He doesn’t need to learn to shoot someone with actual bullets, Clint. We just have to teach him to use some of the other fun things in Stark’s toolbox.”

“Is that a euphemism?” Stiles asks. “Please tell me that’s not a euphemism.”

She offers him a smile that, surprisingly, seems more genuine than unsettling. “Carry on with your combat training with Clint,” she says. “I’ll teach you how to use the toys.”

“Still _really_ hoping that isn’t a euphemism.” 

***

Steve’s awake when Stiles gets back to the suite.

He’s freshly showered and dressed, hair still a little damp as he pours himself a mug of coffee. He looks up as Stiles slips onto one of the kitchen stools, setting the box of cinnamon rolls onto the counter.

“What’s that?” 

“Breakfast,” he replies, flipping the lid open. 

Steve eyes the three rolls that are left. “Nutritious,” he remarks dryly.

“Steve, I’ve seen you chow down on two whole pizzas, cheese fries _and_ garlic bread,” Stiles reminds him. “It was both impressive and appalling. Are you really gonna talk to me about nutrition?”

“That was just…fuel. I have to eat a lot thanks to the serum.” Steve tries. “It’s good to eat something more filling and nutritious for breakfast. Something that has protein. And not icing.”

“Protein? Nutrition?” Stiles says with a snort, dipping a fingertip through the icing on one of the rolls. He licks it off before adding, “Steve, I’ve witnessed Thor eat a whole box of Pop Tarts for breakfast, and he still has more muscles than the combined cast of _Magic Mike_.”

“ _Magic Mike_?” Steve repeats blankly.

He grins. “JARVIS, add _Magic Mike_ to our watchlist.” He winks at Steve. “You’re in for a treat.”

Steve looks faintly concerned for a second, but he grabs a cinnamon roll all the same. “You left early this morning,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t sure if…”

“If?” Stiles prompts.

“If maybe you would have preferred that I slept on the couch last night.”

“What? No, of course not. I tried to stay up for you, but I was way past exhaustion. I got up early to give Clint a muffin basket, actually.”

Steve’s mouth ticks up slightly. “A muffin basket?”

“I know what you’re thinking, it’s not a euphemism, get your mind out of the gutter. You’re not funny.” When Steve grins, unrepentant, Stiles reaches out to steal the last bite of his cinnamon roll. Mouth full, he adds, “Besides, Steve, it’s _your_ suite. Be kinda rude of me to ask you to sleep on the couch. And I wanted you in the same bed the last few nights, but…you’re the one who left.”

The second the words are out of his mouth, he winces, instantly regretting them. The look that crosses Steve’s face makes him feel like shit.

“Wait, no. Fuck. I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes,” Steve says evenly. “You did.”

“No, Steve, I _didn’t_ ,” Stiles insists, frustrated. “I don’t always mean what I say, okay? I’m an asshole sometimes. I stick my foot in my mouth on a pretty regular basis. I say things that I don’t mean because I just don’t think before the words come out. Especially when I’m nervous, or scared, or guilty. Then I tend to phrase things really badly.” He sighs, shoulders slumping. “Look, I started high school as a skinny, pale, nerdy kid with an ugly buzzcut, literally one friend, and the name _Mieczyslaw_. I had to learn some kind of defence mechanism. But I didn’t mean that, okay? I really didn’t. I’m sorry.”

Steve manages to get past most of the awkward rambling aimed his way, gaze focusing on Stiles. “You’re nervous?”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles says. “I have a huge apology to make, and a whole lot of explaining to do, and I…this is the kind of situation where my words don’t really work. I know how I feel. I know, up here,” he taps his temple, “What I want to express. But I don’t really know how to put it into words. And I really don’t want to fuck this up more than I already have, because I love you. I love you so much it’s kind of gross, actually. You’ve turned me into a freaking Hallmark card, Steve.”

To his surprise, Steve just smiles. “Well,” he offers. “I think telling me that you love me is a pretty good way to start.”

Stiles exhales slowly, nodding. He stays quiet, biting back the instinct to keep talking, to fill the silence, and watches as Steve pours a second cup of coffee. He sets it in front of Stiles and sits down opposite him, waiting with the kind of warm patience that only Steve can manage so genuinely.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “I’ve never had sex with someone that I’m in love with.”

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together slightly, confusion crossing his features. “Stiles, you know I’d never judge you for that, right?” he says carefully. “I told you, your generation didn’t invent casual sex. I haven’t been in love with every person I’ve, uh…”

“Fondued with?” Stiles offers.

Steve groans. “How did you…?”

“Tony.”

“Why did I ever think it was a good idea for you to stay here?”

Stiles smiles. “Steve, I know you wouldn’t judge me. That’s not what I’m trying to say. I just…okay. Look.” He straightens slightly, for once thinking carefully before he speaks. “I haven’t _let_ myself fall in love with the people I’ve been with in the past. I’ve chosen people who have a lot of baggage, people who aren’t interested in a serious relationship, or are complete assholes, because it’s…it’s easier that way. I know the relationship will crash and burn, so it’s easier to avoid letting myself fall in love in case I get hurt later down the line.”

“That’s…worryingly masochistic of you,” Steve says. “And makes no sense.”

“I know. I never said it was logical. But with you…I love you. And I thought I was past my self-esteem issues, I really did, but I still…I still worry that our relationship won’t last. I mean, there’s a lot of things putting strain on it, let’s face it. So I avoided sex with you. Instead of putting up the emotional barriers like I’ve done in the past…I built physical ones instead. Because that way, I might end up being hurt just a little bit less.”

Steve mulls that over for a minute. “You’re right,” he says finally. “It isn’t logical.”

Stiles shrugs. “I’m a big ol’ bag of crazy. I know.”

“No. You just have some insecurities and you handle them in a way that isn’t…very smart.” Steve says gently. “I have my own insecurities, Stiles.”

He looks up, surprised. “You do?”

“Since being with me, you’ve almost died,” Steve says quietly. “Twice. You could have a normal life if you weren’t with me. Or a safe one, at least. Of course I have some insecurities, Stiles. But I choose to move past them. I choose to be open with you, to work on this relationship, because I love you.”

“You choose to be vulnerable,” Stiles murmurs.

“Yeah. Because I trust you.”

“I trust you, Steve. I honestly do. I just have this stupid way of trying to defend myself against the tiny possibility of getting hurt emotionally. I don’t know why I do it.”

“Look,” Steve says, voice soft but his expression full of determination. “I can’t promise that this relationship will work out. I can’t promise that we’ll stay together forever. I can’t promise that it will be easy, or that you won’t get hurt emotionally down the line. It would be wrong of me to promise that. But what I _can_ promise is this: I love you. I want to be with you. I want to do whatever it takes to work on our relationship and tackle each obstacle that we might have to face so that I can stay with you. Because being with you makes me happier than I can remember feeling in a long time.”

For a second, Stiles can’t speak. He stares at Steve, so full of emotion that he almost can’t breathe. His heart feels like it’s growing too big for his ribcage, warm and happy. He loves Steve so damn much. More than that, he trusts him, more than he’s ever trusted someone he’s become romantically involved with in the past.

“I want to work on it too,” he finally manages. “I love you and I want to be with you. And…I don’t see you as just Captain America, Steve, I promise.”

Steve gives him a slightly dubious look, fingers curling and uncurling around his own mug of coffee.

“I’m serious,” he insists. “It’s…another stupid barrier I put up without even realizing it. I recently had some sense knocked into me, though, and, Steve…I promise. Do I see you as Captain America? Of course I do. Because _you are_ Captain America. You were him before you ever had the damn serum, Steve. You’re his goodness, his pig headedness, his intelligence, his kindness, you are all of the things about him that people look up to. _You_. It’s like you said, you can’t separate him from you. He’s a part of you. You’re Captain America, and Captain America is you…it’s like some patriotic, sexy catch twenty-two.”

“Stiles.”

“But you’re not _only_ Captain America. You’re Steve. You’re the dumb idiot who nearly got hit by a truck just to save me from getting hit by an eighty year old on a bicycle.”

“Bicycles can still cause damage, Stiles.”

“Steve. Sweetheart. I was walking faster than he was cycling. _Snails_ can move faster than he was cycling. I doubt I would have even got a bruise. But you risked it anyway. And there you were, this big, blonde, all-American farm boy looking hunk -.”

“Farm boy?” Steve repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“Except then you spoke, and you had a little bit of a Brooklyn accent. I’ve never been attracted to that accent before, but right then, it was the sexiest damn thing I’d ever heard. You’re always doing that. Changing my perspective of things. I love it.” Stiles pauses to take a quick, nervous gulp of coffee. “You’re the guy who makes my coffee just how I like it when I’m like a zombie in the mornings, the guy who watches dumb, B grade horror movies with me even though you hate excessive gore. You’re the guy who brings me snacks while I’m studying, who massages me when I’m tense, who holds my hand when we walk down the street with this smile on your face like we’re both fourteen years old in our first relationship, not grown ass men. You cook for me, even though I kind of wish you wouldn’t, because you really do suck in the kitchen. I’m sorry.”

Steve’s smiling, though, wide and unabashed. “That’s fair.”

“You let me steal your shirts -.”

“I like you in my shirts.”

“You do _that_ , that cute little…not exactly _possessive_ thing, but the way you let me know that you love that I’m your partner, it makes me feel…wanted. Safe. I hate possessiveness, but it’s not really that, not in your case. It’s just… _sweet_.”

“Sweet,” Steve repeats, laughing. “You think I’m sweet.”

“You are! And you put up with me rambling all the time -.”

“I like it when you ramble.”

“You’re probably the only one,” Stiles says.

Steve shrugs. “Then everyone else are idiots.”

“And that! You like everything about me. You love me, all of me, flaws and all, like it’s as easy to you as breathing.”

“Bad analogy,” Steve offers. “I used to have asthma.”

Stiles snorts, shaking his head before he continues, “You can turn me into a puddle of goo with just a few words. You do it so easily, making me feel so loved, it’s incredible. You’re so honest, apart from when you cheat at Monopoly -.”

“That’s slander, Stiles.”

“You’re a dirty cheat and you know it,” Stiles says, grinning. “You trust me. You let me make my own decisions. You don’t make me feel weak. You trust me to know what I want. When I said I wanted two lethal former spies to teach me how to fight, you didn’t bat an eyelid, because you don’t treat me like something you own, something you have to take care of; I make my own choices, knowing you will back me. You know I can take a hit. You trust me to get bruised and battered and to know my limits. You eat so much food it’s kind of horrifying -.”

“I told you. Fuel.”

“And you’re so shy sometimes it makes my heart ache with how much I love you. And then other times you’ve got the filthiest mind I’ve ever come across and it makes me love you even more, which should be impossible, except Steve Rogers has never backed down from something that seems impossible, let’s face it. You can be a little shit, which is perfect, because so am I. You can be so determined and stubborn, but you always compromise with me, because you trust me. I just…you’re that guy. My guy. Steve, you’re…well. You’re _my_ Steve.”

There’s a split second of silence.

And then Steve’s mouth is on his.

Their mugs clatter off the counter as Steve almost throws himself across it, hands reaching for Stiles’s face. Stiles hears the mugs shatter as they hit the floor, but he doesn’t care; he’s already clambering onto the counter, ignoring the puddle of spilled coffee as he grabs Steve’s shirt and pulls him even closer, kissing him back with everything he’s got.  
Steve kisses him firmly, desperately, so much passion pouring into it that it makes Stiles feel giddy. Everything he feels for Stiles, all of the love he has, is spoken by Steve’s lips against his own, sparking fire through Stiles’s own body. 

“Fuck,” he pants, reluctantly pulling away for air. “ _Steve_.”

Steve pulls him back in, kissing him deeper. It’s slick and filthy and so fucking hot Stiles thinks he might actually spontaneously combust from arousal, clumsily crawling across the counter until he can wrap his legs around Steve’s waist.

He doesn’t expect Steve to suddenly move, lifting him effortlessly, and he gives a muffled moan into Steve’s mouth as he holds on, not breaking the kiss for a second as Steve turns, crossing the kitchen.

Stiles’s back hits the fridge hard enough for several things to rattle loudly inside it and Steve’s body is against him a fraction of a second later, hard and desperate as he drags his mouth down Stiles’s jaw and neck. He pauses just above the collar of Stiles’s shirt, sucking a bruise into his skin, and Stiles rolls his hips forward.

“Come on,” he breathes. “Steve, fuck, come _on_. I need you.”

Steve lifts his head, a pleased grin on his face. He hasn’t even fucked Stiles yet and he already looks smug, the bastard. 

Stiles reaches a hand between them, slides it under the waistband of Steve’s sweatpants, and wraps his fingers around him, giving a slow stroke. The quiet groan and the way Steve bucks slightly, rolling into Stiles’s touch, his breath hot against Stiles’s neck as he drops his head again, is so beautiful that Stiles’s heart feels like it’s going to burst.

When Steve meets his gaze again, Stiles offers his own smug grin.

“You okay there, big guy?” he teases. “And I mean _big_ , by the way. Seriously. _Hello_ there, soldier.”

Steve huffs a breathless laugh. “You’re such a dork.”

“Yeah, yeah. Less talking, more fucking, please. Bedroom’s that way.”

“Well, since you said _please_ ,” Steve drawls.

His hands find Stiles’s hips at the same instant their mouths connect again. He kisses Stiles slower this time, a promise, a little tease of what’s to come, and it makes Stiles shiver, pressing his body tighter against Steve’s.

“Steve -.”

An alarm goes off.

Stiles blinks, startled, moving his wide eyes to the Avengers logo that has filled all of the screens in the apartment, accompanied by the hideous, shrill claxon. 

“You’ve got be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.

Steve offers a smile. “Avengers assemble?” he offers, pressing a soft kiss to Stiles’s mouth. “Sorry.”

“No, no. You go do your thing. Go save the world, all that jazz. I’ll be here. Waiting. Very naked. Possibly with rose petals, maybe some smooth love music. Hey, ‘Like A Virgin’ by Madonna would be a good choice -.”

“Stiles,” Steve says, his laugh tickling Stiles’s skin as he kisses him again. “No rose petals or music needed. Just you. Naked. Waiting for me.”

Stiles snaps a little salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Steve kisses him one more time, a slow, heated promise, before he reluctantly pulls away. Stiles leans back against the fridge, feeling ridiculously weak-kneed, as he watches Steve leave the suite.

When the door shuts, he sighs.

Cockblocked by supervillains.

What is his _life_.

***

An hour later, he’s cleaned the whole suite, taken a long, cool shower, and paced every inch of floor probably five times.

The only thing that actually snaps him out of his impatience is the sight of an explosion in the distance. Stiles stops to look out of the window. He sighs.

“That can’t be good.”

He drops down onto the couch, grabbing the remote to switch on the TV. All of the news channels are focused on whatever is going on out there, so he settles on one. Luckily the building that’s gone down in flames is apparently empty and unused, but since it’d kind of been Iron Man’s fault, the news anchor is going _in_ on him. 

There’s a lot of smoke in the background and the occasional flash of lightning in the sky, but Stiles can’t see what it is the Avengers are actually fighting. He ends up leaning forward, squinting at the screen, concentrating so hard that he actually startles right off the couch when there’s a knock on the door.

He pauses. Everyone should be out, except Ms Potts, but she has no reason to visit him. The SI employees don’t have access to the upper floors. 

Slowly, he gets to his feet. There’s an aluminium baseball bat propped up near the couch and he grabs it as he creeps across the suite. He pauses in front of the door, listening intently.

A hand smacks against the door just as he presses his ear against it and he yelps, flinching back.

“Stiles, I know you’re there. It’s me. Are you going to let me in or…?”

Relief trickles through him and he opens the door, letting Allison step inside. “Sorry. Wasn’t expecting anyone. I was being cautious.”

“I don’t think you and the word cautious have ever belonged in the same universe,” she says, smiling. “And I’m not exactly an expert, but I’m pretty sure bad guys don’t knock.”

“Polite ones do,” Stiles says.

She reaches out, gently flicking the bat in his hand. “Aluminium?”

“Better than wood.”

“For baseball purposes, of course,” she says, nodding.

He grins. “Of course.” He leans the bat up against the wall next to the door. “Are you okay?”

She shrugs off her jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch. “Sure. I was supposed to meet Lydia for lunch, but the roads and all public transport systems are on lockdown thanks to,” she waves a hand towards the window as thunder rumbles in the distance, “Whatever that is. So I figured I’d hang out here until it’s over.”

Stiles nods. “Any idea what’s going on?”

She shrugs. “Some green guys, apparently.”

“Green?”

“Green, ugly, pyrokinetic.”

Stiles sighs. “Why not.”

“So,” she says, leaning her hip against the couch. She’s very carefully holding his gaze. “Why are you naked?”

It takes Stiles a second to remember that, yeah, he is actually very much naked. He’d been waiting for Steve, after all, and he’d made a promise to be sans clothes when Steve returns. 

“Uh,” he says. “Whoops. Sorry. I was expecting Steve, not guests.”

She smiles. “I take it you sorted things out between you, then?”

“Yep.”

“Great. I’m happy for you. Please go put some pants on.”

“Probably a good idea,” Stiles agrees, hiding himself with his hands as he heads for the bedroom.

“Seen it all before, don’t worry,” she calls after him. “I’ll make coffee.”

Stiles tugs on a pair of sweatpants and a Hawkeye shirt. He has a variety of T-shirts featuring the Avengers now. His favorite is probably the one that has Iron Man on it, body flailing as he’s lifted off the ground by a giant cartoon magnet. He likes to wear it just to bug Tony. 

True to her word, Allison has a pot of coffee ready when he returns to the kitchen. She pours herself a mug and sits down.

“Nice shirt,” she says, smiling. 

Stiles looks down. “Thanks. It’s a Hawkeye shirt, but don’t tell Clint. He’ll only preen.”

“Nope,” she says, reaching out to tap the bow and arrow motif. “It’s an Allison shirt. Cute.”

He laughs, filling his own mug with coffee. Outside the windows, a giant green blob appears on top of one of the buildings in the distance before disappearing again. A roar rumbles like a storm. 

Stiles takes a sip of his coffee. “Thanks for coming over, actually. I was getting a little caught up in my own head.”

“Worried about Steve?” she asks softly. “It must be hard when he goes off to fight.”

Stiles blinks. “Huh? Oh, no, more like impatient for him to hurry up and get back. We got cockblocked by ugly green pyrokinetic assholes.”

She laughs, shaking her head slightly. “Of course. Silly me.” She curls her hands around her mug, expression sobering as she looks at him. “Are you okay, though? Really? Scott told me about what happened. Clint got shot?”

“A little bit shot,” Stiles clarifies. “Just a tiny bit. He’s fine. I got him a muffin basket.”

“Interesting. What would you get someone if they got a _lot_ shot for you?” 

“Depends on where they get shot. Knee? A giant stuffed bear. The gut? Probably a blowjob.”

“Lovely.”

“But I’m fine. Really. I met Daredevil.”

She tilts her head slightly. “Really? What’s he like?” 

“Kind of an ass. I like him.”

“Of course you do.” 

“I punched a guy. Knocked him out. That was pretty good for my ego.” Stiles says. “But I couldn’t…I had a gun, I could have taken this guy out, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. Clint thinks I’m weak.”

“I don’t think there’s anything weak about that,” Allison offers quietly. “I doubt he does either.”

“He says I’m gonna end up killed if I’m not able to bring myself to shoot someone. We argued a bit. Natasha had to intervene.”

“What did she say?”

“She pointed out that there are non-lethal weapons that I could train to use.”

“Well,” Allison says with a smile. “There is that.”

“Apparently Tony’s invented a veritable toybox of funky weapons that I could try out.”

“Boys and their toys,” she replies dryly. “How’s things going with training outside of the whole gun issue?”

“Fine, I guess. I’m getting better, at least. Clint’s been pretty cool, actually; he’s been keeping me away from Barnes. Seriously, I never want that guy to do me a favor again.”

Allison takes a drink of her coffee. “You never did tell me exactly what happened.”

So Stiles does. She listens, eyebrows raising slightly, and she kind of looks like she thinks he’s exaggerating. When he insists that, no, that is genuinely what actually happened, and he probably has security feed footage to prove it, she frowns.

“Wow,” she says. “What a dick.”

“Yeah. I don’t think he likes me much.”

“Ugh,” she groans. “Please tell me he’s not doing the whole best friend, shovel talk thing. That’s always so lame.”

“I honestly don’t know. I just know that he’s really not a whole bag of fun to be around, so I’ve been keeping out of his way.”

Allison drains the rest of her coffee and then stands up, cracking her knuckles in a way that’s both badass and kind of cute.

“Well,” she says. “I’m not having that.”

Stiles looks at her, raising an eyebrow in question, and she grins back at him.

“I’m gonna teach you how to kick his ass.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for canon-typical violence in the form of sparring, aftermath of a brutal battle, and Hydra.

He’s worked out with Allison before.

Runs, mostly; she’s a good running partner, quiet but encouraging, always prepared with the best routes mapped out for them. But she’s also run him through some self-defence before, especially when they first moved to the city and Stiles – who’d been born and raised in his tiny hometown – had been a little paranoid about being mugged. 

She holds a self-defence class twice a week and he’s been a few times. So he knows her style of fighting, which falls somewhere between Natasha’s fast, fluid movements and Clint’s hard, methodical force, and her method of teaching. 

Just like he expects, she holds back with her first strike. He uses an elbow block, hard enough to knock her off balance; before she can recover, he hooks his foot behind her knee and pushes his palm flat on her back, sending her sprawling to the floor. 

She instantly rolls onto her back, looking up at his grinning face. “You _have improved_ ,” she says. “Good.”

Stiles offers a hand. “I have good teachers. Terrifying, but efficient.”

She takes his hand and he starts to help her up; instead, she smirks and pulls , _hard_ , reeling him in until she can land a solid kick to his solar plexus. He ends up on his back, wheezing slightly, surprised.

“Ow,” he says. “Dirty fighting, Allison, _jeez_.”

She’s already back on her feet, all dimples and an innocent smile as she looks down at him. “Good. You need to fight dirty. Real life isn’t a tournament, Stiles. If you need to defend yourself for real…trust me, no one is gonna be fighting honourably. Fight dirty, fight viciously, fuck the other guy up with _extreme_ prejudice.”

Stiles stares up at her. “That’s both terrifying and heart-warmingly badass. I’m very fond of you, just so you know.” 

She beams. “I’m fond of you, too.”

He doesn’t move to get up, just stays sprawled on the ground, giving a little exaggerated groan. He’s waiting for Allison to assume that he’s down for good and get too close. 

“Clint has actually been teaching me to fight dirty,” he says. “Or, well, how to fight dirt _ier_ than I already was.”

“Yeah?” she says, amusement curling through her voice. “Did he teach you to always kick someone when they’re down?”

She’s moving before she finishes speaking, foot snapping towards Stiles’s ribs. But he’s moving too, rolling into a quick crouch; he grabs her foot and pulls sharply, yanking her off balance. 

“Yeah,” he says. “He also showed me how to avoid it.”

Allison hadn’t hit the floor; she’d worked with his pull, tucking herself into a neat little roll that brings her into a crouch opposite him. She laughs, dark eyes sparkling, a stray curl falling over her face. 

“Good,” she approves.

She doesn’t hold back after that. Stiles pretty thoroughly gets his ass kicked, but it’s good. She shows him how to get out of the grab Bucky had manipulated him into, how to flip a super soldier on his ass, where and how to exert pressure to make even someone built like a mountain just _crumple_.

By the time Steve arrives an hour and a half later, Allison has Stiles pinned on the floor, the tip of a dagger pressed gently to his throat.

Stiles sees Steve pause in the doorway, not even hesitating before his posture shifts and he snatches the shield off his back, preparing to throw it. 

There’s an awkward moment where Stiles tries to roll Allison to protect her body with his own at the exact same time she tries to do the exact same thing to protect _him_ , and they end up grappling like idiots on the carpet, heads banging together painfully.

Luckily, Steve has already clocked that Allison isn’t actually someone who genuinely wants to murder Stiles, and he’s already lowered the shield.

“It’s a little concerning how often I walk into a room and find someone else on top of you,” he remarks with a smile. “But I guess I should be relieved you decided not to be naked while waiting for me.”

“He was naked when I got here,” Allison says, rolling to her feet. She tucks the dagger back into her boot with a smooth flick of her hand, then offers it to Stiles to help him up. “I made him go put on pants.”

“Probably a good idea,” Steve agrees. He looks tired, his uniform and shield covered in thick, gross smelling slime, but he’s smiling. 

Allison stretches and checks her phone. “I should go. I’ll need to shower now before I meet Lydia.”

Stiles nods. “Thanks, Allison.”

She slides her jacket back on. “Remember what I said. Dirty and vicious, Stiles.”

He grins. “Absolutely.”

She winks and walks by Steve out of the door, sharing a brief but warm smile with him as she passes. 

“Does she usually keep a knife in her boot?” Steve asks mildly.

Stiles shrugs. “And Natasha doesn’t?”

He smiles at that, setting his shield down by the door. He tugs his cowl off completely, running a head through his hair. Little clumps of goo get stuck in the blond strands and Stiles can’t help but wrinkle his nose.

“So…green guys all taken care of?” he asks. “Were they aliens?”

“Lab grown,” Steve replies, mouth tightening slightly.

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Yeah. With limited lifespans, apparently. We didn’t really have to do much before they just started…exploding.”

Stiles eyes the green gunk Steve is covered in, stomach rolling. “That’s…harrowing.”

Steve nods. “We’ve mostly been containing it. And cleaning up. Tony took out a building dodging a fireball, so we stuck around to help out with that.”

“Did you catch the mad scientist that…grew them?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah. Coulson’s got him.”

“Good.” Stiles holds out his hands. “Come on. You stink.”

Steve smiles a little at that. He peels off his gloves before taking Stiles’s hands, letting him guide him into the bathroom. 

Stiles has had fantasies about peeling Steve out of his Captain America uniform. But right now, it’s intimate but definitely not sexy as Stiles helps Steve strip, trying not to focus on the green stuff too much. Once he’s completely naked, the uniform a discarded pile of material next to his boots, Stiles strips and turns on the shower, ushering Steve into it.  
Even out of the uniform, the smell still clings to Steve’s hair and skin. It doesn’t smell like blood or flesh; it’s sharp and overpowering, like scorched metal, rotten eggs and decaying roadkill. Stiles nudges Steve under the spray, grabs the soap, and starts to wash him.

Steve just watches him, quiet, expression tense. Stiles is patient, giving him time as he focuses on every inch of skin, gentle but making sure he washes thoroughly.

“They didn’t understand,” Steve says after a moment, voice a little hoarse. “They weren’t…they were an experiment. Grown and locked up. A whole new species, Stiles, and they…they were like children. They were _scared_. The guy who created them, he said he wanted to see if he _could_ , that they were never meant to get out. Just several hours of life, full of chaos and terror and confusion, and then…they exploded.”

Stiles swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Hulk killed one. Before we realized they weren’t a deliberate threat. I should speak to Bruce.”

Stiles nods, smoothing a hand over Steve’s shoulder. “Later,” he says softly. “Today was rough, huh? Just let me take care of you for a while.”

The tension drains away from Steve and he nods, resting his forehead against Stiles’s shoulder. The easy trust there, the vulnerability, makes Stiles’s heart ache and he gives Steve a brief, careful hug before returning his attention to washing him. 

Once his body and hair are squeaky clean and stench free, he shuts off the water and grabs a towel to dry them both off. It’s only when they’re in the bedroom and Stiles is finding clothes that Steve speaks again.

“We had plans. For when I got back.”

Stiles turns to look at him. “Sure. But you’re exhausted, Steve, and it’s been a pretty shitty afternoon for you. Let’s just get some rest, huh?”

“I’m sorry.”

Stiles shakes his head, reaching out to cup Steve’s jaw. “Sweetheart, I’ll still be here tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. We’re on the same page now and we have all the time in the world, okay? We don’t have to rush it.” 

Steve nods, accepting the bundle of fabric Stiles hands him. Once he’s got the sweatpants on, he crawls into bed. Stiles joins him, but doesn’t get under the covers, just sits against the headboard and smooths a hand over Steve’s damp hair.

“You did good today,” he murmurs.

“We couldn’t save them.”

“No, but you did your best for them. Even in all of their confusion and fear, you and the team were there, trying to help them. I’m guessing they never had anyone try to help them before, or show them compassion, or any kind of humanity. That probably meant more to them than they could’ve shown in those last moments. And you stopped the guy who created them, so he’ll never be able to do anything like that again. No one else will have to suffer like they did. That counts for so much, Steve.”

Steve closes his eyes, sighing quietly. Stiles doesn’t move away; he lets his thumb drift gently over Steve’s brow, smoothing out the frown there, trying to ease his weariness.

“Today was a rough day,” Stiles says quietly. “But next time could be better. Next time, you might be able to save them all. It all balances out in the end.”

“That’s…optimistic of you.”

“Not often I can be accused of that.”

Steve’s mouth curls up at that, just a tiny bit. He tilts his head slightly to press a kiss to Stiles’s palm. “Thank you.”

Stiles leans down to brush a kiss against Steve’s forehead. “Get some rest.”

He waits until Steve falls asleep, then stays just a little longer, until his body finally relaxes and the frown on his face disappears. He strokes back Steve’s hair one more time before climbing off the bed, careful not to disturb the other man when he needs his sleep.

He gets dressed and digs in the closet for the duffel bag he knows is in there. Steve never uses it, so he doesn’t feel bad for stealing it. He shoves Steve’s uniform and boots into it, zipping it up securely before thoroughly washing his hands.

Then he pauses. “Uh, JARVIS?”

“How can I be of assistance?”

“I don’t think the washing machine is gonna be powerful enough for this,” he says. “Is there, like…I dunno, a superhero strength washing facility by chance? Or someone who sorts this kind of stuff?” He could probably hand scrub the uniform if needs be, but it’d take forever, and the smell really is revolting. 

“Sir always tends to the team’s uniforms when they are in need of repairs.”

Oh. He’s about to ask if a bad smell really constitutes as in need of repair, but then he remembers the couple of tears and scorch marks he’d seen on Steve’s suit. He figures Tony can probably get the smell out pretty easily as he does the repairs. He wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some special superhero-grade uniform bleach in Tony’s workshop.

“So…I don’t suppose there’s a laundry shoot that goes down to the workshop?” he asks hopefully.

His only answer is the elevator doors swishing open. He steps into it with the bag, tapping his fingers slightly against his thigh. He’s never been to Tony’s workshop, either the one a couple of levels down or the one in the basement. The elevator takes him to the one beneath Tony’s private floor.

There’s a short corridor and a wall of opaque glass. Stiles steps out of the elevator, grip tightening on the straps of the bag.

“So, do I just leave it outside the door, or…?” A panel of glass slides back. “Or that works, too, I guess.”

He steps through the opening, pausing just inside the workshop. Most of it is dark, so he can’t see much, but what he can see is incredible. A lot of blue light, holographic screens, tables scattered with tools and technology like something out of a sci-fi movie. There’s a row of Iron Man suits standing in cases to Stiles’s right, gleaming in a variety of colours, and Stark is hunched over a table, scrubbing at a bent piece of chest plate.

Stiles feels like a kid. He wants to explore, wants to learn, wants to ask a million questions, but he knows better. He likes Tony; he doesn’t want to piss him off. 

Tony doesn’t look up from his armor, just points to a corner of the workshop. “Over there.”

Stiles picks his way through the controlled chaos of the workshop, nearly tripping over a robot. It’s arm whirs at him before it rolls away on wheels and Stiles stares, awed and more than a little gleeful.

It’s _amazing_.

He’s about to open his mouth and rattle off questions, but then a light helpfully flicks on, illuminating a little side room. The door opens as Stiles approaches and he knows now why Tony wants the uniform contained in a separate space; the smell that rolls out of the room is strong enough to make him gag.

He dumps the bag on top of a pile of uniforms and scrambles back out, relieved when the door closes again. The smell still itches at his nose, but it’s not nearly as bad.

Tony doesn’t look up as Stiles heads back across the workshop. When Stiles pauses, though, a few feet away, he does give a little impatient flick of his fingers, a silent, annoyed _what do you want_ obvious in the gesture.

“I just…is Dr Banner okay?”

Tony does pause then. He lifts his head, giving Stiles a dark, sardonic look. The rest of his expression is cold. He keeps working at the armor with tight, barely leashed movements. 

“Yeah, no offence, kid, but we’ve been handling this shit since long before you toddled along. Go play babysitter elsewhere.”

His tone is flippant, would be pleasant if it wasn’t for the nastiness of the words themselves. Stiles grits his teeth, fingers twitching against his thigh. He bites back the 'yeah, fuck you too, buddy' that’s on the tip of his tongue. It’s been a shit day for all of them, not just Steve, and provoking an obviously pissed off Tony probably isn’t a great idea.

“Steve just wanted to talk to him, that’s all,” he says instead, keeping his tone even.

The expression on Tony’s face doesn’t change, but he does say, shortly but a lot less forcefully, “Bruce is fine.”

Then he turns his focus back on his armor, dismissing Stiles without a single word. Stiles beats a quick retreat out of the workshop, heading straight into the elevator.

Steve is still asleep when he gets back to the suite. Stiles takes another shower, scrubbing his skin raw until he’s certain there isn’t any of the stink still lingering on him, and tugs on a pair of pyjama pants before climbing into bed.

He’s not tired. Sore from working out with Allison, but he’s not exhausted enough to sleep. He briefly considers trying to study, but he knows he hasn’t got the focus he needs for that right now.

Instead, he shifts to spoon Steve, tucking his forehead in against Steve’s shoulder. He doesn’t sleep, but he stays, letting the quiet sound of Steve’s slow, easy breathing relax him. 

***

Lydia finds a dead snake in her purse two days later.

When Stiles gets to her apartment, there’s two agents with her, both of them Stiles recognizes: Hunter and Piper. She’s surprisingly calm, considering only an hour ago she’d tugged a dead reptile out of her purse instead of her lipstick. 

There’s a blanket over her shoulders – the thick, knitted blue one Stiles gave her when she first moved to the city for grad school and struggled with the cold winters – and her hands are cupped tightly around a mug of tea, but she gives him a smile when she sees him.

“You look worse than I feel,” she teases, setting the cup down so he can hug her. “Stiles, really, I’m okay.”

Stiles doesn’t let go for almost a minute. When he does, he casts a quick look around the room. “Is it…?”

“Still here? Of course not. This carpet is new. I made sure they removed it straight away.” Lydia replies. “They’re going to study it, see if they can find anything that will tell us who put it in my bag.”

“How did they even get close enough to do it?” 

“Stiles, I was at school today. I must have passed a hundred different students in the corridors. I must have walked across campus at least twice. I had office hours, too. Any one of the hundreds of people I walked past today could have done it.” She pauses, wrinkling her nose. “Ew. I don’t think even the deepest clean can get reptile corpse ick out of my purse. I just bought it, too.”

Hunter and Piper share a look, but Stiles knows Lydia. He knows she isn’t as unflappable as she seems; focusing on the smaller details, things like her carpet and her purse, is how she remains calm in the face of the bigger picture. It’s how she compartmentalizes and moves on.

Stiles sits back, pushing a hand through his hair. Sure, plenty of people had come in contact with Lydia today, but for one of them to be able to slip something in her purse without any of the agents tailing her noticing…

“They’re good,” he says. A sliver of ice cuts into his belly, spreading cold through his veins. “If they’re good enough to get close enough to do that unnoticed…they could have done anything.”

Lydia’s lips tighten slightly. “Yes, thank you, Stiles. I was trying not to think about that, actually.”

He reaches out, taking her hand. “They didn’t do anything worse, but they wanted to send a message that they _could_. To get to me.” 

“Self-centred, much?” Lydia asks, but her voice is soft. Her fingers tighten briefly around his own. 

Stiles can’t quite manage a smile. It’s a clear message: if they can’t get to Stiles, they’ll hurt the people he cares about if necessary. 

They want him to be vulnerable. They want him to _allow_ himself to be vulnerable, to let them get to him, and they know that threatening his loved ones is the easiest way to get him to do that.

He’d do it in a heartbeat.

And Steve, who’s watching him, who knows him so well, says, “No.”

Stiles pushes out a breath. “What’s the alternative, Steve? Whisk away _every single one_ of my friends, my dad, all the people who are close to me? Lock them up in some secure base somewhere? Make _them_ quit their jobs and responsibilities too?”

“No,” Steve replies, calm in the face of Stiles’s frustration. “But we can increase the security detail on all of them.”

“And how many agents will that take? How many people will be doing that instead of attending to the multiple other security threats SHIELD must deal with on a daily basis?” Stiles points out. “What happens if it doesn’t work, huh? They got to Lydia today, just to send us a message. It could be a much nastier message next.”

“What’s _your_ plan?” Steve replies, still infuriatingly cool. “Just let them take you? Let them do whatever it is they’re planning for you? Or just give them the information they want and hope they’ll leave you alone after that?” 

“What? No. My plan is to be bait.”

“No.”

Stiles gets to his feet, incredulous. “Are you for real? Steve, if you stop thinking with your dick for half a -.”

“It’s not my _dick_ I’m thinking with and you know it,” Steve says, tone lower now, angry. “You compromising your safety is not a plan, Stiles.”

“Well, maybe it’s not up to you. Coulson would be on board.”

“He wouldn’t,” Steve shoots back. “And would you really do that? Go behind my back instead of trying to compromise with me?”

“It’s not like you’re giving me much choice! What am I supposed to -?”

Lydia clears her throat. “Boys.”

Stiles stops, looking down at her. He’d forgotten for a second that they had an audience, but part of him doesn’t really care. Hunter and Piper both have their best poker faces on, completely ignoring the argument that’s just unspooled in front of them. Lydia just looks exasperated. 

“Stiles,” Steve says, softer. “It’s too much of a risk. They’ll probably suspect it’s a trap. There’s absolutely no guarantee they’ll fall for it.”

“But it’s worth a shot,” Stiles insists.

“Steve’s right,” Lydia says. She rolls her eyes when Stiles gives her a betrayed look. “They’re obviously pretty smart. Too smart to fall for you being bait.”

Stiles sighs. “But -.”

“The bait doesn’t have to be _you_ , Stiles.”

He stops. “No way. You’re obviously in some kind of shock or something, because that is the craziest damn idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Crazier than you dangling yourself out like a worm and hoping they won’t bite _too_ hard?” Lydia counters calmly. “Stiles, think about it. If they’re willing to go after any of us, we can use that. They’d be expecting you to try a bait trick, not me.”

“It’s too risky,” Stiles insists.

“Not to me. I know I’ll be protected. If we increase the protection on all of us, both to avoid any suspicion about us not reacting to what happened today, and to cover all possibilities, I should be fine. It’s an acceptable risk.”

“ _Acceptable_?” he repeats incredulously. “You…are you kidding me? You would do that?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “For you? Of course I would. And so would any one of us.”

He snorts. “Even Jackson?”

“Well. Probably not Jackson.”

He shakes his head, turning back to Steve. “Tell me you’ve got my back on this.”

Steve gazes at Lydia for a moment, turning the idea over in his head, but his expression already tells them exactly what his answer is. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s too much of a risk. It isn’t worth the chance of you getting hurt.”

“Ma’am? Well, that’s quaint.” Lydia says evenly, but her eyes are flinty as she meets Steve’s gaze. “But, with all due respect, Mr Rogers? It isn’t your decision. It’s mine. I’m not asking for your approval and, quite frankly, I don’t need it. I only need Director Coulson’s.” 

Stiles stares. _Mr Rogers_. God, Lydia has always had steel balls, but holy shit. He’s not sure whether to be impressed, frustrated, or both. 

Steve’s mouth curls up, just the tiniest bit. “I suppose you have a point. If you’re certain…well. I guess we’ll see what Coulson says.”

Lydia smiles back, saccharine. “I guess we will.”

Steve doesn’t try to hold back his grin, just rests his hand, briefly, on Stiles’s hip. “I’ll be in the car.”

Stiles nods, watching him go. After a couple of minutes of silence tick by, he turns back to Lydia, incredulous.

“ _Mr_ Rogers?”

She gives a little shrug. “Captain was always honorary. He didn’t seem to mind.”

“Yeah, because he appreciates strong women.”

“Good. He’s smart.”

Stiles shakes his head. “You’re something else,” he says fondly. “Hell in high heels.” He sits back down with a sigh. “I really don’t like this.”

“I know,” she replies. “I’d apologize, but I’m not sorry.”

He carefully tucks the blanket back around her shoulders. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” There’s not a trace of hesitation in her voice. “I can handle it, Stiles.”

“I know. That’s what worries me.” He tucks a stray lock of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. “Are you really okay?”

“Really,” she promises, patting his knee. “I’ve experienced worse things.”

He gives her a dubious look. “Seriously?”

“I dated Jackson in high school.”

He laughs, and she grins back, hazel eyes softening. She wordlessly tips sideways until she’s leaning against him and he curls an arm around her shoulders, holding her close.

The ice in his belly doesn’t thaw at all.

***

It doesn’t hit him until they’re almost back to the tower.

“A snake,” he says quietly. “Am I wrong to hope that they just randomly chose that particular reptile?”

The look Steve gives him isn’t a particularly happy one. It’s clear he’d already clocked the symbolism the second they found out it was a dead snake in Lydia’s purse.

“No,” he replies. “It’s another message.”

Stiles closes his eyes and leans his head back. Fucking Hydra.

“They chose the wrong damn creature,” he mutters, tone acerbic. “They’re not snakes. They’re fucking cockroaches.”

Steve’s smile is grim. “Yeah. Trust me, I know.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for this chapter: canon-typical violence in the form of sparring.

“So, Hydra,” Daisy says, leaning back in her chair. “Yay.”

Stiles rolls his mug between his palms, watching the coffee inside it slosh up to the rim without spilling over. Next to him, Steve is quiet and still. His expression gives nothing away, but Stiles can practically sense the storm crashing inside him.

It’s fucked up, Stiles thinks. No matter what he does, Steve just can’t escape Hydra.

_Cut off one head_ …

Bucky’s sat across from them. His face is blank in a way that’s incredibly unsettling, but the ice cold hardness of his eyes lets Stiles know that he’s just as affected as Steve. Stiles doesn’t exactly like him much, but he feels a flare of anger on the guy’s behalf. He can’t escape Hydra either. 

“Do you think he-who-should-not-be-named is involved?” Fitz asks, fiddling nervously with his tablet.

They’re sat around a large conference table at SHIELD HQ. He hadn’t even needed to be bagged this time; Steve had given the poor agents one look and they’d backed off. Apparently, Steve’s trust in Stiles is enough for Coulson to trust him too. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to push Steve when he’s already in a pretty shitty mood.

“He’s not Voldemort, Fitz,” Daisy replies. “You can say Ward’s name.”

Stiles has no idea who Ward is or what the backstory is there, but the tension that falls over the table is unmistakeable. Jemma rests a gentle hand on Fitz’s wrist, stilling the anxious flutter of his fingers over his tablet.

“And, no,” Daisy adds after a moment. “I don’t think he’s involved.”

“Is it wise to rule him out completely?” Bobbi asks, arms folded over her chest. 

Coulson shakes his head. “Daisy’s right. We know that since we last saw him, Ward has been involved with Hydra, trying to build something from the ashes, but other than that, he’s been off the grid despite our attempts to find him.”

“Right,” Hunter says. There’s a coldness on his face, an anger that hardens his features into something unnerving. “He’s been patient. Waiting.”

“You’re right. He’s planning something, that’s obvious. But as calculating as he is, Ward’s also a loose cannon.” Daisy leans her arms on the table. “If he wanted a shot at the Avengers…he would have done it before now. Besides, Ward isn’t the type to want to attack the Avengers.”

“Right,” Hunter says. “Because you know him so well.”

“Hunter,” Bobbi warns quietly.

Daisy just meets his gaze, unflinching. “I know exactly what Ward wants. You know just as well as I do what drives him most.” Her attention flickers to Bobbi.

Hunter’s jaw flexes slightly. “Revenge,” he grits out. 

“Right. Revenge. That’s what makes him so cold, so calculating. But just as much as he wants revenge, he wants to belong to something. It’s what he’s always tried to seek out, lashing out when he doesn’t find what he desperately craves.” Daisy pauses, before adding, “And he wants power. That’s what motivates him to be who he is. That’s why he’s been off our radar. He’s trying to establish himself as some kind of head honcho with Hydra.”

“So why would he suddenly rear his head now, just to try and kidnap Stiles to get to the Avengers,” Mack agrees. “He’s smarter than that. He’s biding his time for something bigger, something with more of a guarantee to work out in his favor.”

“Well, that’s not concerning at all,” Jemma mutters.

Stiles raises one hand slightly. “Okay, so, I think we’ve established that this Ward dude isn’t involved. Yay. Shots all round. But, uh…what I wanna know is: why _me_?”

Coulson’s brow furrows slightly. “For information, perhaps,” he replies. “On Captain Rogers, or the Avengers. Or to use you as leverage.”

“Right, no, that bit is obvious. What I mean is that Hydra are kind of massive big bads, right? I know the history, okay? They have funding. They have top scientific and military minds. Before the fall of SHIELD, they had plenty of powerful figures in their ranks and plenty of fingers in plenty of different pies. If they wanted to get to Steve or the Avengers… _why me_? They could easily go after Steve, or Bucky, or any other member of the team. I get that I’m more vulnerable than them, but these different attempts…they just don’t fit. Hydra is sly. They’re calculating. They’re _patient_. They’d have a stronger game plan than this. They’d hit the Avengers, or any one of the team members, when it was least expected. Not try and go after me. And fail, twice.”

“Hydra’s different after Captain Rogers prevented their plan with the Helicarriers,” Coulson replies. “The main Hydra group fell, just like SHIELD.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, giving a pointed look at the logo on the wall to his right. “I can see just how obsolete SHIELD is.”

Coulson’s mouth ticks up slightly. “We’re aware that Hydra is still alive. But they’re not thriving. Any powerful figureheads were caught and taken in. Any that weren’t were smart enough to cut all ties with Hydra. Since we learned that Hydra was still functional, both agents of SHIELD and the Avengers team have been on an extended mission to locate and take down different Hydra affiliated cells. We’re finding fewer and fewer now. The more heads we cut off, the closer we get to stamping them out for good.”

“So, what? This is just some desperate attempt from some die hard members to try and fight back?” Stiles asks.

“Maybe,” Coulson says. “Or it could be a splinter group.”

“Right,” Stiles replies, sighing. “Hydra started with Red Skull going all solo from Nazis. Makes sense that more splinter groups would break off over the years.”

“Especially since SHIELD and Hydra fell,” Coulson adds. “As small as the main group, Hydra as we know it, is now…plenty of copycats have risen up recently, starting their own smaller factions. Trying to revive Hydra, while grabbing power for themselves.”

“Wonderful,” Stiles mutters. “So it could be some copycats. That’s flattering.” He sits up slightly. “Okay, but they obviously have funding and connections. They were able to hire a team of mercenaries to try and grab me in my apartment. They knew how to find and approach the Punisher and they offered a _lot_ of money. The people they’ve sent after me, whoever they hired to slip that snake into Lydia’s purse…they’re good. Really good. That doesn’t scream amateur to me.”

“No,” Coulson agrees, tone darkening slightly. “They’re well connected. Someone behind the scenes is funding them, giving them orders. A puppeteer.”

Stiles sighs, watching his breath ghost little ripples across the surface of his coffee. “Well, that’s reassuring.”

Natasha has been still and silent, observing them all, but now she speaks. “So, what’s our plan?”

Coulson glances at Steve. “Captain?”

“We find out whoever this group is,” Steve says. “We find them, we’ll be able to find their leader.”

“I have JARVIS running a constant background search based on all existing and new Hydra data we have and continue to obtain,” Tony adds. “Anything funky crops up, he’ll alert us.”

“Clint and I will hit the ground,” Natasha says. “If they started as a small faction, they’ll have made enemies, got involved in different criminal circles, made their way up the ladder. We’ll question our contacts, get any information we can on them.”

Steve nods. “Good,” he says. “If Coulson’s right and the group themselves are amateurs, if we bring them in, they’ll be able to point us in the direction of whoever’s giving the orders.”

“Unless they don’t know who they are,” Bucky points out. “If they’re that green, the person bankrolling them will be smart enough to make sure they’re smoke. There’s a good chance anyone we manage to bring in won’t have any useful information at all.”

“It’s the best plan we’ve got,” Steve counters.

“There’s Lydia’s suggestion,” Natasha says.

“I’ve already discussed that option with Miss Martin,” Coulson replies, shaking his head. “It’s not worth the risk. We’ll keep it on the backburner if nothing else works…but for now, with other options, it’s out of the question.”

Stiles relaxes, relieved. “Good.”

He stays quiet for the rest of the meeting, just listening, focusing on the game plan the others put together. It’ll mean being patient, waiting for any information they can get to point them in the right direction, and then following the tracks to get to anyone directly involved with the Hydra group. But it’s a solid plan and Stiles feels a little better, knowing that they have a plan of attack.

Still.

He thinks about Hydra.

He thinks about Lydia and the snake in her purse.

He catches Barnes’s eye and feels his resolve harden, anger sinking it’s claws into him, making itself a home behind his ribcage. 

Steve is the last of the Avengers to leave the conference room, lingering to speak to Coulson. Stiles waits by the elevators; when Steve joins him, he slides a hand into his back pocket, smiling at the way color creeps up Steve’s neck.

“So,” he says, once they’re alone in the elevator. “Have I told you how much I love your Captain America voice?”

Steve looks at him, lips curving into a smile. “No, but feel free to tell me now.”

“It’s incredibly sexy,” Stiles replies, leaning in to kiss Steve’s jaw. “And I love it when you get all tactical. You have a brilliant mind.”

Steve’s huff of laughter tickles Stiles’s neck. “And here I thought you just wanted me for my body.”

“I want all of you,” Stiles replies honestly.

His back hits the wall of the elevator, Steve’s mouth covering his own, swallowing the surprised grunt Stiles gives. His hand slides into Stiles’s hair, cupping the back of his head as he pulls him into a deeper kiss, slow and demanding, his body pushed tight against Stiles’s. 

Heat starts to simmer in Stiles’s belly and he moans quietly, arching his hips forward as he kisses Steve back, biting down gently on his lower lip. The resulting groan and flex of Steve’s other hand on Stiles’s hip makes him smile, more than a little smug. He loves making Steve feel good.

The elevator doors slide open. 

Stiles looks over Steve’s shoulder, offering the auburn haired agent looking at them a sheepish smile. 

“Captain Rogers,” she greets, amusement curling through her voice. “I think I’ll take the next one.”

She presses the button and the doors slide shut again. Steve presses his forehead against Stiles’s neck.

“You’re a bad influence,” he murmurs, his lips tipping into a smile against Stiles’s skin.

“Uh, excuse you,” Stiles replies. “ _You’re_ the one who pressed _me_ against the wall to make out.”

Steve pulls back, a kiss ghosting across Stiles’s temple. He doesn’t let go of his hips, though, and doesn’t put space between them, just looks at him, quiet for a moment.

“It’ll be okay,” he says softly. 

Stiles nods, lifting his hand to smooth his thumb across Steve’s jaw. “I’m sorry. This must be pretty shitty for you. Every time you fuck Hydra up, they just keep coming back.”

Steve closes his eyes, resting his forehead against Stiles’s. “I’ve lost so much because of Hydra,” he murmurs. “I won’t let them take you away from me, too.”

“I’d like to see them try,” Stiles replies easily. 

***

He finds Barnes in the fitness suite five hours later.

For the time being, all of the Avengers are staying in the tower, both because it makes sense to stay in one place while they’re investigating the Hydra group targeting Stiles, and as a show of force. With the team all together, in one place, it’s less likely that anyone smart will try anything. 

Barnes is going to town on one of the reinforced punching bags. It’s kind of awe inspiring to watch, the same way it is with Steve, witnessing that much raw, unleashed power. He doesn’t hold back on his strength and the way the arm moves, all gleaming metal and cutting edge technology, when he _really_ gets to use it is incredible. It’s even more amazing to think of how both Steve and Bucky hold back that strength most of the time, what it must take to adjust their power to ‘baseline human’ around other people.

He thinks of how gentle Steve’s hands are on him, the way he grips Stiles’s hips firmly, but never hard enough for the skin to give. Even when he gives in a little, pressing Stiles up against walls to kiss the everlasting fuck out of him, he never loses that control, never ever hurts Stiles.

It’s mind boggling. The serum gave Steve all of that power, sure, but the ability to control it, to leash it until it’s needed? 

That’s all Steve.

Barnes knows he’s there, of course. Stiles just waits, leaning against the wall as he watches Bucky work out his frustrations on the poor punching bag. After a few minutes, even with its reinforcements, it snaps, hitting the floor with a thud that echoes through the room.

Only then does he turn slightly towards Stiles, hair falling across his sweat damp face. “Not the time, pal.”

If Stiles was…well, _anyone_ else, he’d be smart enough to take that warning. Instead, he just shrugs and crosses the room. He nudges the broken punching bag with his toe.

“You don’t like me,” he says. “I get it. But right now…I don’t really care. I’ll have time to be bothered about it later, when Hydra is well and truly six feet under for _good_ , but right now? I could give a damn if you like me or not. Truth is, I need your help.”

“You bitched about my help before,” Bucky points out.

“Well, to be fair, you were being kind of an asshole. But I think I need that kind of assholery right now. I need to be prepared.”

“ _Really_ not the time,” Bucky repeats. His metal hand keeps clenching and relaxing from a fist, but the rest of him is completely, unnervingly still. “I’m…in a shitty place right now.”

Stiles gently kicks the punching bag again. “Yeah, no shit, buddy. Want to fight it out?”

“Do you have a fuckin’ death wish?”

“No. That’s why I’m asking for your help.” Stiles meets his gaze steadily. “Look, no matter what Steve does, no matter how much he fights them, no matter how many heads he cuts off, they keep coming back to haunt him. But I’m guessing you know how that feels, huh?”

Bucky snorts. “Little bit, yeah.”

“I saw a look on Steve’s face today that I never want to see again,” Stiles continues. “And if I have to take down every single Hydra cell, wannabe or splinter group to do it, I will.” His own hands clench into fists and he has to take a steady breath. “I’m gonna take down whoever is after me. Not for me. For Steve. And then I’m going to make sure Hydra is down for good.”

For a long moment, Bucky just looks at him, an unfathomable expression on his face. Then, finally, he gives a nod.

“You’re gonna have to work your ass off,” he says. 

Stiles just spreads his hands. “That’s why I’m here.”

He jerks a thumb towards the row of punching bags. “Warm up.”

Barnes cleans up the broken bag while Stiles does as he’s told. He hauls it to one corner of the room, where there seems to be a small pile of equipment. Or the remains of them, anyway. He figures they’re left there for Tony to fix at some stage.

He settles into the pace of hitting the bag. He likes the way his body warms up, adrenaline starting to slide, slow and silky, through his veins. He likes feeling his strength and stamina improve, but he doesn’t go too hard on the bag. He needs to keep his energy for sparring. Still, it helps calm his mind a little as well as warm him up. 

By the time he moves to the mat, Bucky seems less agitated. That burning anger has dulled to a simmer, leashed inside him. A cool control has eased over his features. Silently, he lifts his metal hand, and gives a _come get me_ gesture.

Stiles feints to the left, but Bucky’s expecting it, already moving to block when Stiles shifts at the last second, going in with a punch aimed to Bucky’s right side. His metal arm comes down, deflecting the blow easily; he’s holding back, so the force of it doesn’t shatter bone, but it does make Stiles wince slightly, body rocking to the side. He turns with it, driving an elbow towards Bucky’s abdomen, but it’s effortlessly blocked again, this time a little harder. When Stiles goes for a quick punch to his face, Bucky just shifts backwards, teasingly out of reach. There’s a slight smirk on his face.

“Come on,” he says. “Stop tryin’ to hit me and hit me.”

Stiles can’t help it; he stops short, a startled laugh escaping him. Bucky takes advantage of his distraction, his punch landing in Stiles’s gut hard enough for him to double over with a pained wheeze. Bucky’s elbow slams down on his back, sending him to the floor.

For a second, all he can do is lie there, gasping for breath. Then he rolls onto his back, looking up at Bucky incredulously.

“Was that a Morpheus reference?” he gasps out.

Bucky shrugs, blatantly smug. “Barton made me watch ‘em a while ago.”

Stiles laughs again, then snaps his foot up, kicking Bucky in the crotch. It’s one of the first things Clint had taught him: no matter how big, strong or skilled they are, unless they have a steel dick, kicking them there will work. Bucky gives a satisfying pained grunt, body automatically hunching forwards, and Stiles surges up, aiming a palm strike for his throat. Bucky catches his wrist, twists as he pulls Stiles up and back against his chest, arm caught behind him. This time, his flesh arm locks around Stiles’s shoulders, keeping him pinned, and he keeps his head out of Stiles’s range.

Stiles tips his head forward instead, sinking his teeth into Bucky’s wrist.

He bites until he can taste blood and he has to fight against his reflex to gag because _gross_. But it works.

“Jesus!” Bucky hisses, grip loosening slightly as he tries to yank free of Stiles’s teeth.

It’s enough for Stiles to bring his free arm up, squeezing it between his torso and Bucky’s arm, and he pushes out, forcing Bucky’s grip to slacken even further, enough that Stiles can slide down and free. A dull ache throbs through his twisted arm at the manoeuvre, extended now as Stiles’ body lowers, but Bucky has to release it a second later in order to avoid the kick Stiles snaps at his leg.

When Stiles turns, he’s backed off a few feet. He looks down at the bite on his arm, incredulous.

“Scrappy fucker, ain’t ya?” he mutters.

Stiles just grins. 

Bucky snorts, wiping the blood on his arm off on his shirt. “Thought you didn’t wanna catch anything?”

He shrugs. “Worth the risk, this time.”

Bucky laughs, a genuine chuckle that surprises Stiles, and a second later, he finds himself on the mat again, this time landing on his back. Bucky just gives him a smug smile, the asshole, and it pokes at the fire sizzling in Stiles’s belly. It’s been there since he’d seen the expression on Steve’s face at the conference table, the look of someone so haunted, so _tired_ , his fury simmering away as he thinks of how badly he wants to end Hydra once and for all.

The more he spars with Bucky, the more times he hits the mat, or ends up pinned, the stronger that fire grows, until the anger is raging through him, hot and uncontrollable, burning away anything that isn’t fury.

Bucky sees it, too, but doesn’t rise to it. Instead, he’s cool and efficient, no longer playing with Stiles; he takes him down again and again with sharp, brutal movements. But Stiles keeps getting up, keeps throwing himself back into the fight, determined to get at least one shot in. 

His fist flies past Bucky’s face and a cool metal hand locks around his throat. Bucky doesn’t squeeze, but his grip is firm, enough to make Stiles stop completely.

“Easy,” he warns. “Control it.” He taps Stiles’s chest once with his flesh hand. “That anger? That fire in your belly? You can _use_ it. But you’ve gotta control it, not let it control you. Got it?”

Stiles swallows, wincing when the movement rolls painfully against the hand around his throat. “Are you?” he manages. “Angry?”

“Not as much as I used to be,” Bucky replies carefully. “Still more so than I’d like. But I keep it under control. ‘Sides, it helps, sometimes. I didn’t feel much back then, when I was the Soldier. Anger, sometimes, sure, but not like this. That was the fury of a fight, of losin’, of pain or frustration. This anger is more…”

“Visceral?” Stiles offers quietly.

“Yeah. But I can use this anger. Focus it into a kinda calm.”

Stiles thinks of the hardness in Bucky’s eyes when they’d first started sparring, the cool blankness in his expression. He knows exactly what Bucky means; instead of letting the rage burn into a supernova, shape it into something sharp and cold and deadly instead. A calm determination rather than unleashed fury.

“How?” he asks. 

Bucky lets him go slowly. He taps one finger against Stiles’s temple. “Focus.”

Stiles steps back, taking a deep breath. The pause in fighting has already drained his anger, leaving exhaustion in its wake. But he rolls his shoulders, deliberately relaxing the tension in his body, and gives Bucky a quick nod.

Bucky eases up a little now he sees that raging fire has burnt out, his movements less brutal, but still just as effective. As Stiles gets more and more tired, his own reflexes get slower, sloppier, but he doesn’t feel that humiliation at getting his ass pretty much handed to him. He just feels a determination to improve.

Bucky’s fist flashes towards him. A move Natasha had drilled into him sparks through Stiles’s head and he’s moving before he really thinks about it, body rocking back slightly. Bucky’s arm over extends and Stiles takes advantage of the brief moment of loss of balance, using his forearm to block Bucky’s arm and force it out in a wide circle as he steps in towards Bucky’s body. His other hand comes up, gripping the bicep of Bucky’s flesh arm, and he rolls forward, throwing Bucky to the ground, his own body following as he tries to get his legs around Bucky’s neck in a chokehold.

Bucky’s quick, though, already one step ahead, and before Stiles can finish the move, he ends up on his back, Bucky’s body pinning him to the ground. His arms comes up, ready to hold Stiles’s chest down and trap his arms, but Stiles slams his head up before Bucky gets chance, wincing at the pain as his forehead connects with Bucky’s nose. 

He brings his knees up over Bucky’s hips, so he can reach to his ankle, fingers sliding under the fabric of his pants to grab the knife strapped to his calf, easing it free. 

Bucky’s metal hand curls around Stiles’s throat at the exact same second the tip of the knife touches Bucky’s throat, right over his carotid artery. 

Bucky doesn’t even blink, just raises an eyebrow. “Dummy knife?” he guesses. “Woulda known if you were packin’ real steel. The heaviness changes your gait.”

Which is why he’d chosen a dummy knife; lighter than real blades, he’d hoped Bucky wouldn’t notice it. That, and he’s not dumb enough to threaten Bucky with a real knife. 

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly. “I’d rather not end up as a pile of viscera, so. Figured it’d be best.”

“I wouldn’t kill you if you had a real knife,” Bucky replies, rolling his eyes. “I’d call you a moron and show you why it’s a bad fuckin’ idea to bring a knife to a fistfight with someone a lot more skilled than you.”

Stiles narrows his eyes as he slowly lowers the dummy knife, tucking it back into the strap. “Are you saying I wouldn’t normally have a chance?”

“I’m sayin’ that I underestimated you. If I hadn’t, then, no, you wouldn’t have stood a chance.” He uncurls his hand from Stiles’s neck and rolls easily to his feet. “But that’s good.”

Stiles clambers a hell of a lot less gracefully to his own feet. “Why?”

“’Cause I figure a lot of people will underestimate you too,” Bucky replies with a grin. “Gives you the chance to kick their asses.”

Stiles can’t help but smile a little at that. He feels bruised and battered, but good. His mind feels a little more settled, his determination a little more focused. 

“Did Nat teach you that?” Bucky askes. “That move with the knife?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No. A…friend of mine did.”

He wipes a hand across his face. He’s sweaty and gross, desperately in need of a shower. He starts stretching out his sore muscles, but Bucky doesn’t leave, just watches him. 

“It’s not that I don’t like you,” he says after a while.

Stiles gives him a sardonic look. “Sure,” he drawls. “I’d hate to see how you treat the people you _really_ don’t like, then.”

“Pretty similarly, actually,” Bucky admits. “But I’m serious.”

“So, what? Is it some kind of jacked up version of the shovel talk?” Stiles asks. “Because that isn’t cool. It’s not cool ever, actually, but especially for Steve. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s a grown ass man and stubborn as hell to go with it. He can make his own decisions about his love life.”

“I know that,” Bucky replies. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Stiles rolls out his shoulders and looks at him, raising an eyebrow in question. “Then what?”

“You’re a civilian.”

“Yeah?” Stiles replies. “So…what? You wanted him to shack up with a SHIELD agent or something?”

“No. But at least they’d be able to take care of themselves.”

“What the hell do you think I’m doing all this for?”

“I know. But the reality is, even now, you’re…well, you’re not like us. When I first met you, I thought you’d break his heart. Not because you wanted to, but because he’d lose you. You’d get hurt or killed and it would destroy him, and I don’t want to see that happen.”

Stiles blows out a breath. “So you figured you’d make me stronger to try and avoid that happening.”

Bucky shrugs. “Pretty much.”

“You could have just talked to me, or him, about it, instead of being a dick.”

“Coulda, yeah,” he agrees. “Too easy that way, though.”

Stiles snorts, shaking his head. “Do you still feel that way?”

“No. Not anymore.” When Stiles tilts his head, questioning, Bucky adds, “I told you. You’re a scrappy fucker. More dangerous than you look and willing to fight fuckin’ dirty if you have to.” An amused look slides across his face. “Now, I think if it came down to you and a Hydra hitman in a locked room? Punk wouldn’t know what hit him.”

Stiles grins. “Bucky, that was almost flattering.”

“Call ‘em how I see ‘em, is all,” he replies, then asks, “Is that something you’re interested in? Knives?”

Stiles glances at his ankle, the strap concealed by his workout pants. “Maybe,” he allows. “I dunno. They’re good for close range, sure, but what kind of an idiot brings a knife to a gunfight? But I just…don’t really see myself running around with guns, you know? So…maybe. I was thinking of asking Natasha to do some knife training with me.”

“I’ll do it,” Bucky says, a grim smile touching his mouth. “I have plenty of experience with knives.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for: explicit sexual content.

Two and a half weeks later, Stiles wakes up on a Friday morning, and it takes him a full five minutes before he remembers it’s his birthday.

The bed is empty next to him, but it’s almost nine, so Steve’s probably already out on his morning run. Yawning, he sits up, stretching until his spine gives a satisfying _pop_. He’d trained with both Clint and Natasha the afternoon before and he’s sore, but he’s noticing how much less he’s affected the more he trains and works out.

So far, their progress on finding any leads on the Hydra asshole trying to get to Stiles has been pretty much non-existent. Stiles’s days have been eaten up with training; he cycles between runs, his stamina improving with each trip out with Clint, the weight increasing just slightly every couple of days, working out on his own – a regime Clint had shown him: a mix of using the punching bag, cardio, and strength exercises – and sparring with either one of the former spies (or both) or Bucky. When he’s not getting the crap beaten out of him, he’s either studying, or spending time with Steve.

If he’s honest, he’s never been more focused about anything in his life, even school. His studying, sadly, reflects that; he’s missed the deadlines on a couple of papers and he’s falling behind, he knows that, but he can’t quite seem to be able to dedicate the same amount of focus to it as he used to. He knows that, soon, he’ll have to make a decision, but for now, he just does his best to keep on juggling his responsibilities.

He reaches for his phone, smiling at the various texts from friends, wishing him a happy birthday. He starts answering them, distracted enough that he doesn’t hear the door open, but the smell of coffee has him jerking his head up a second later.

“Morning,” Steve says with a smile. There’s a tray in his hands, loaded with coffee, orange juice, pancakes and bacon. 

“You made me breakfast in bed?” Stiles asks, pleased. “You’re amazing.”

“I can lift a car with my bare hands, but, sure, my breakfast in bed skills are what’s incredible.” Steve says dryly, easing onto the bed. He sets the tray down before leaning in to press a slow, soft kiss to Stiles’s lips. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” Stiles manages. “Can you really lift a car with your bare hands? Can you show me? I need to see it for…reasons.” 

“You’re turned on by it, aren’t you?”

“Little bit, yeah,” Stiles admits. 

Steve laughs quietly, kissing Stiles again before he pulls back, picking up one of the mugs of coffee. “Do you have any plans today?”

“Not really. Maybe go hang out with Scott later, if he’s free, but he might have work.”

“Can I take you out later? For dinner?”

Stiles smiles. “I’d love that.” 

“And you have the party tomorrow.”

“Yeah – wait. What? What party?”

“The party Thor’s planned for you.”

Stiles blinks. He and Thor get along okay – it’s impossible to _not_ like Thor – and he’s even sparred with him, on one memorable (and actually not that painful) occasion. But there’s getting along and there’s planning surprise birthday parties.

“Thor,” he repeats. “Big, tall, blond, God of Lightning, that Thor?”

“Do you know many Thor’s?” Steve asks, amused.

“Well, no, just the one, actually, but I thought it was worth checking. Uh…why, exactly? The party, I mean?”

“Thor enjoys parties,” Steve says. “And he likes to throw himself into Midgardian traditions, even if he doesn’t really understand them. So he wanted to throw you a surprise party.”

“Okay, but, Thor. I don’t know what parties are like where he’s from, but I’m concerned.”

“Me too,” Steve replies, smiling. “Which is why I tried to take over most of the planning.”

“Tried?”

“Parties were different back in my day.”

“ _Back in my day_ ,” Stiles repeats. “I love it when you get all grandpa on me.”

“That’s a strange kink,” Steve teases, smirking at Stiles’s horrified face. He kisses him again. “Tony decided to take over to put us all out of our misery.”

Stiles is starting to wish he hadn’t woken up. He’s in bizarro land right now. The concept of Tony Stark throwing him a surprise birthday party is too surreal to handle.

“That’s…isn’t he too busy for that?” 

“For Tony, organizing a party basically means a few phone calls,” Steve says, then adds, “And he pretty much handed that responsibility over to Ms Potts, actually.”

Stiles buries his face in his hands. He’s met Pepper a few times and she’s nice – lovely, in fact, and has made him feel both welcome and liked in the tower – but _still_.

“She’s the CEO of a multi-billion dollar company, Steve. She hasn’t got the time to be throwing me a party, either.”

“She doesn’t mind,” Steve says. “Actually, I think she’s been enjoying it. It’s less stressful than dealing with SI and all of…well, Tony.”

Stiles blows out a breath. “Okay, well, it’s less worrying than Tony, at least. I’ve read about his parties.”

“Me too,” Steve replies with a laugh. “And Natasha, which is why she’s been keeping an eye on things, too.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “So, basically, Thor, Captain America, Iron Man, Pepper Potts, and Black Widow are throwing me a surprise birthday party.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“You realize there are kids that literally dream of this shit, right? Like…there are people who make a business of dressing up as superheroes to entertain kids parties.”

Steve shrugs, smiling. “You’re one of us,” he replies.

“Last time I checked, I’m not an Avenger.”

“No. But you’re my partner, which makes you one of us. Same as Pepper. Same as Jane.” Steve kisses Stiles’s temple. “And they like you.”

“Really?” 

“Stiles. Do you really think Tony would even bother to spare a thought about someone’s birthday if he didn’t like them? Or Natasha, for that matter?”

“Well, no.”

“They like you,” Steve says firmly.

“Well, cool. That’s…cool. Hey, can you give me a minute? I just need to ring basically everyone I went to high school with and rub it in their face that the Avengers like me.”

Steve laughs, shaking his head. “Dork.”

Stiles smiles, cutting into his pancakes. “Hey, Steve, baby? You do know what the 'surprise' in surprise party means, right?” 

“I do,” Steve says. “But I wasn’t sure if it might be too much for you, with everything that’s going on lately. I figured I’d give you a chance to back out if you’re not up for being surprised like that.”

Stiles hums. “What’s it gonna be like?”

“Lowkey. It’s going to be here, in the suite. Your friends have been invited, but it won’t be too crazy.” 

“That sounds great, actually,” Stiles says. “Really great. Remind me to thank Thor. And Tony. And Pepper…and Natasha.”

“And me,” Steve replies dryly. “But don’t thank them until the actual party. Thor will be disappointed if he thinks you’re not surprised.”

“I’ll act so surprised I’ll put the actual super spies to shame,” Stiles promises. He kisses Steve softly. “It’s really thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

Steve smiles, nipping at Stiles’s bottom lip before he pulls away. “Eat your pancakes before they go cold.”

Stiles gives a bratty salute, deliberately sloppy because the way Steve winces, biting back to the instinct to correct him, never fails to make him grin. 

The pancakes are, surprisingly, really good. Steve watches the dubious look on Stiles’s face shift to incredulous and pleased and gives a snort.

“I didn’t know you can make awesome pancakes,” Stiles says, a little accusingly. They could’ve been eating delicious, syrupy goodness for _months_.

“I can’t,” Steve replies. “Bucky made them.”

“You recruited _Bucky_ in making me breakfast in bed? Steve.”

“No, but he knew I was planning on trying to cook for you again and decided he’d better get involved so I don’t accidentally poison you on your birthday.”

“Smart of him,” Stiles agrees, nodding, laughing when Steve knocks their shoulders together in mock offence. “Also, surprisingly nice of him.”

“He likes you,” Steve replies. He gives Stiles a cautious glance. “Did you two have a talk or something?”

“Or something,” Stiles answers. “I didn’t know Bucky can cook.”

“Nothing exotic, just the stuff he likes. He finds it relaxing, a way to settle his mind when things get a little too much for him.” Steve’s expression darkens slightly. “Food wasn’t much of a luxury when he was…when Hydra had him. So being able to cook now, to eat when he wants to as much as when he needs to, and eat things he _enjoys_ , is something he likes to do a lot.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just reaches out, gently squeezing Steve’s hand. They finish the breakfast in comfortable silence and Steve sets the tray aside, shifting to kiss Stiles. He tastes like sweet syrup and berries with just a tang of coffee and Stiles opens his mouth to him, pressing forward into the kiss.

They haven’t taken things further than making out and some very enjoyable groping so far. Since that first, hurried, almost-against-the-fridge-fuck that never happened, they’ve had a kind of unspoken agreement to slow things down again. They both know they want it, they’re both on the same page, but there’s no rush. They’re taking their time, swapping hot kisses and sweet touches, enjoying the slow, searing build up. The anticipation is just as good as Stiles thinks the sex will be. 

Stiles’s phone interrupts their kiss and he sighs as he reluctantly sits back. It’s his dad, though, so he gives Steve an apologetic look and answers it.

His birthday ends up being enjoyably lowkey. When he’d been in high school, he’d always wanted a huge party, and had been stupidly excited on the few occasions he got an invitation to a house party. Probably because he hadn’t had many friends, so not much opportunity for a party. He’s got that out of his system since college, though, and just spending the afternoon with Scott is awesome.

Steve isn’t in the suite when Stiles gets back, but he’s stolen one of Stiles’s post it notes to stick on the fridge, letting him know to meet him in the building foyer at seven. He likes it when Steve leaves real notes instead of just sending him a text; it’s a little outdated, maybe, but it’s sweet. Thoughtful. 

Stiles has no idea what to wear, though, so he sends Steve a quick text.

_Stiles [18:12] Fancy or not?_

The response comes a few minutes later. 

_Steve [18:15] me fancy. Not Tony fancy._

Thank fuck for that. Stiles never really does well with glitz and glamour; the few times he’s had to go to a formal restaurant, he’d just ended up making a huge idiot of himself.

He takes a shower and then opens the closet, shoving aside ratty jeans and scruffy plaid in his quest for something suitable. He eventually settles on neat black pants and a white shirt but doesn’t bother with a tie or blazer. 

Steve’s waiting for him in the foyer and there’s already a car idling at the curb. Stiles gives the agent a little flick of his fingers in greeting. 

“So,” he says. “How many escorts do we have tonight?”

Steve just smiles, kissing him. “You look great.”

So does Steve. He loves Steve in everything and anything – his old fashioned pants and shirts, his jeans and plaid, his Captain America uniform – and he loves him in absolutely _nothing_ just as much. But fuck, can the guy wear a suit. Stiles just wants to lick him all over.

He kisses Steve again, a little deeper, a little hotter, to let him know just how good he thinks he looks and smiles when Steve’s hand curls over the back of his neck, holding him close for more kisses.

By the time they get to the restaurant, Stiles’s mouth is pleasantly tingling and the poor agent is staring pointedly forwards. Stiles grins as Steve visibly pulls himself together before they head inside.

It’s nice, but not so fancy that Stiles feels uncomfortable. Instead, it just feels intimate, and he can almost forget that there’s agents littered around them, keeping a constant eye on things. He almost forgets that there is a real possibility of them getting attacked. It feels like it’s just the two of them, hands loosely linked on the table, the candlelight flickering beautifully over Steve’s face.

The waiter asks for Steve’s autograph and it’s hilarious and adorable watching Steve get all flustered for a second before he slides easily into his polite, humble Captain America smile, shaking the guy’s hand after he signs a napkin for him. 

“Steve Rogers,” Stiles says playfully when the waiter’s gone again, awestruck expression firmly fixed on his face. “Winning hearts all over the world.”

Steve shrugs. “There’s only one heart I care about winning.”

Stiles groans. “Ugh, _cheese_ ,” he accuses, pressing a hand over his chest. “But you already know you’ve won it, you dork.”

Steve just grins at him, giving a cheeky wink that makes Stiles laugh. 

They split a dessert and Steve insists on paying the bill, which is probably for the best considering there’s not much inside Stiles’s bank account besides dust and cobwebs, but he tries to protest anyway.

“It’s your birthday,” Steve says firmly. “You shouldn’t have to pay on your birthday.”

Stiles acquiesces, but it isn’t until they’re back at the tower and Steve is opening the door for Stiles that he realizes he’s being _wooed._ He can’t help but smile. Heat starts to simmer in his belly and when they reach the suite, he turns, resting his hands on Steve’s hips.

“Would you like to come in for coffee?” he murmurs.

“Cheese,” Steve teases, brushing his lips across Stiles’s. “I don’t think that line works when it’s my suite and I’m currently kinda living in it.”

Stiles just shrugs and opens the door, walking backwards into the suite as he starts unbuttoning his shirt. The smile fades from Steve’s face, replaced by an intensity that makes Stiles’s heart pound. The door shuts, and Steve is on him, sliding the shirt over Stiles’s shoulders to let it fall to the floor.

“You know,” Stiles murmurs. “I’m not usually this easy. Dinner and a few cute lines shouldn’t be enough for me to put out.”

Steve laughs, pressing a path of open mouthed kisses down Stiles’s neck. “There is _nothing_ ,” he murmurs, punctuating it with a little nip against his pulse point, “easy about you.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult,” Stiles replies, pushing Steve’s jacket off him and tossing it to the side.

“Good. I think I’ll keep you guessing.”

Stiles laughs, shedding Steve’s shirt next and dropping it to floor as they back towards the bedroom, still swapping slow, intoxicating kisses. 

“It’s my birthday,” he points out. “Can’t be mean to me.” 

Steve just grins, nudging the bedroom door shut behind them with his foot. He keeps pressing Stiles back until they get to the bed and then he turns, dropping onto it, pulling Stiles on top of him.

“Wait, wait,” Stiles says with a laugh. “Shoes.”

He makes quick work of getting their shoes and socks off and then he crawls back up Steve’s body, leaving a path of kisses up his chest until he reaches Steve’s mouth.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he murmurs. “I just want to lick you all over.”

Steve hums, cupping the back of Stiles’s head. “I’m not opposed to the idea.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I bet you aren’t.” He rolls his hips down, moaning softly against Steve’s jaw. “What do you like? I mean, what’s your preference?”

“I like both,” Steve replies. 

“Good,” Stiles says, smiling. “Good, me too, and I really, _really_ want to fuck you, I bet you’d feel incredible.”

Steve groans quietly, hips pressing up, rocking them together. Pleasure stings through Stiles, arousal, thick and heady, sliding like syrup through his veins.

“But,” he manages breathlessly. “I’ve been fucking dreaming of having you inside me for _months_. That’s what I want this time. You?”

He surges up, kissing Stiles a little harder, a little slicker. “Yeah. I want that.”

“Next time, though?” Stiles can’t help but smirk as he reaches for Steve’s belt. “Next time, I wanna see if I can make Captain America _beg_.”

Steve’s eyes darken, pupils blown wide as he looks up at Stiles. “Plenty of people have tried and failed.” His voice is low, husky with his own arousal, and Stiles _loves_ it.

“I’m very talented,” Stiles promises. He leans down, sucking a mark against Steve’s neck. It’ll be gone by morning, but for now, the sight of it sends a wave of giddying need through Stiles. “C’mon. There needs to be less pants in this equation.”

Steve laughs but helps him make quick work of getting them both completely naked, clothes tossed aside impatiently. Then he rolls them, covering Stiles’s body with his own, keeping his weight on his forearms as he kisses Stiles, lazily rubbing against him.

“Fuck,” Stiles manages, breathless already. “Steve, please.”

Steve grins. “What was that about begging?” 

Stiles nips at his lower lip in response. He wriggles until he can reach for the nightstand, pulling open one of the drawers. He fumbles around until his fingers close around a bottle and a foil wrapper. He tosses the condom onto the bed, but when he starts to uncap the bottle, Steve reaches out, fingers loosely curling around Stiles’s wrist.

“Let me?” 

The heat in his voice, the way he looks at Stiles, eyes dark and raw, open arousal on his face, arousal that’s there because of _Stiles_ …fuck, Stiles feels like he could come just from that alone.

He usually opens himself up; he knows how to get himself ready quickly without the fumbling or impatience. But he nods, letting Steve take the bottle, and eases back against the pillows, spreading his legs to accommodate Steve.

Steve takes his time preparing him, peppering kisses to Stiles’s thigh and hips and belly, completely ignoring Stiles’s aching dick. When Stiles lightly nudges him with his foot, begging him to _hurry up already_ , he just laughs, murmuring, “No rush” against Stiles’s thigh.

Finally, when Stiles is pretty certain he’s gonna fucking explode before Steve actually fucks him, Steve pulls back and grabs the condom, rolling it onto his erection. He enters Stiles slowly, letting him adjust, eyes intent on Stiles’s face as he slides in, inch by beautiful inch.

Stiles’s hands clench on Steve’s sides. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Oh, fuck, _Steve_.”

Steve buries his face against Stiles’s shoulder, biting little kisses into his skin. “I love you.” 

He starts to move, slow and steady, peppering marks against Stiles’s shoulder and throat. Stiles slides his foot to Steve’s calf, uses it to roll them, flipping them until he’s on top. Steve makes a pleased sound in his throat, hands finding Stiles’s hips, gripping tightly but not painfully as he thrusts up to meet Stiles as he rocks down.

It’s more than Stiles had ever expected. He’s had good sex before; he’s had incredible, kinky, mind-blowingly hot sex before. But it’s nothing like this. It’s nothing like the way Steve feels inside him, the way he feels under him, the sweat slick heat of his chest as Stiles presses his hands on it. It’s nothing like the way Steve sounds, low moans spilling from him, or the way Steve _looks_ , head tipped back and mouth open in pleasure, but his blue eyes fixed on Stiles, drinking in the sight of him.

In an incredible display of core strength, Steve suddenly sits up. It shifts him deeper into Stiles and they both groan, a shiver rippling through Stiles. Steve lifts his knees to bracket Stiles, one arm lashing around his waist to keep him balanced. He fucks up into him, his free hand gripping Stiles’s hair as he kisses him, slow and deep, sucking on Stiles’s tongue in rhythm with each deep thrust.

Stiles lets his fingers dig into Steve’s back as he rocks down to meet each thrust, moaning into Steve’s mouth. His climax builds inside him, fireworks lighting in his belly, balls tightening, and he chases that beautiful, hot, desperate twist of pleasure; he slides a hand between them and it only takes three strokes before he’s coming, his cry muffled against Steve’s mouth.

He has to pull his lips away after, head tipped back slightly as he gulps for breath, twitching through the aftershocks. Steve keeps rocking up until he reaches his own orgasm, moaning into Stiles’s neck as he thrusts deeply, stilling as a shiver rolls through him. 

“Fuck,” Stiles manages, breathless and a little giddy. “Fuck, Steve, I love you.”

Stiles presses kisses along Stiles’s shoulder and neck and jaw, up to his mouth where he brushes a sweet, soft kiss to his lips. “I love you.”

He helps Stiles as he practically collapses onto the bed next to Steve, wincing when the bottle of lube digs into his hip. Steve shoves it back in the drawer and makes quick work of disposing of the condom and cleaning them both up. Then he tucks back into bed with Stiles, pressing a tender kiss to Stiles’s sweat damp forehead. 

Stiles shifts to kiss him back, their bodies rubbing together. It’s enough to make Stiles wince, too sensitive, but he feels Steve twitch against his hip and looks down, incredulous.

“Probably should have mentioned that,” Steve admits.

“Wow. Okay. Yeah, that…that is definitely something I need to explore.” Stiles says, leaning his head back again. “Not right now, though. I can’t feel my legs.”

Steve laughs, kissing him again, and then carefully rolls them until they’re tucked together, Steve’s hand on Stiles’s hip. Stiles feels Steve’s breath against his shoulder and it’s pleasant, giving him all the fuzzy feelings as he lets himself drift in post-orgasm bliss.

It isn’t until he’s on the verge of falling asleep that it hits him. “Steve.”

Steve makes a sleepy sound. “Yeah?”

“You decided our first time should be on my birthday. You’re such a _sap_. Oh my god. That’s so cheesy.”

“Well, I thought about having rose petals and candles, maybe some romantic music,” Steve teases. “But I thought that might be overkill.”

“You’re such a romantic, Steve. It’s so gross.” 

“You love it.”

Stiles smiles, wriggling back further into Steve’s snuggle. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I really do.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in this chapter for: alcohol, drunkenness, kidnapping.

Stiles wakes up first.

He rolls over, pleasantly sore and ridiculously happy. Steve has his back to him, arm curled adorably around his pillow as he snores, and Stiles wants to lean in, wants to lick his way up Steve’s spine. Lazy morning sex has always been a favorite of his and he can’t wait to experience it with Steve.

But he can’t bring himself to wake Steve up. He looks so peaceful and it’s rare he actually sleeps in, so Stiles doesn’t want to disturb him. 

Besides, his bladder is getting pretty insistent and his mouth feels dryer than a desert. 

He climbs carefully out of bed, stretching, and grabs a pair of boxers from the dresser. He uses the bathroom, washes his hands, and rubs sleepily at his face as he heads to the kitchen. There’s a jug of orange juice in the fridge and he knows Steve thinks it’s gross when he just guzzles it out of the carton instead of taking the time to grab a glass, but he’s still half asleep and his mouth tastes like sand.

When he reaches for the fridge, however, his hand hits warm flesh.

“Good morning, Stiles.”

He blinks, jerking his hand back, and, yep, that is definitely someone else in the suite. He blinks again as Natasha just smiles at him, taking a sip of coffee. 

It takes him a moment to remember that he’s only wearing a pair of boxers and he swears, scrambling until he’s stood on the other side of the breakfast bar. 

Natasha just looks at him, taking in the little love bites littered across Stiles’s neck and shoulders before she gives a pointed look at the clothes strewn haphazardly around the suite. She raises an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on her lips.

“Well,” she drawls. “It looks like someone had a nice birthday.”

Stiles sighs. “Coffee?” he asks. “Please?”

To his surprise, she does actually pour him a cup. She fixes it just how he likes, but Stiles isn’t really startled by that. Natasha _notices_. Everything. It’s unnerving, but he has to admit, it does come in handy. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, taking a sip. “So, uh, why exactly are you here? Every time you break into the suite, it’s never good news for me.”

“I don’t break in,” she replies. “JARVIS lets me in.”

Stiles aims a betrayed look at the ceiling, then turns his attention back to his coffee as he hears Steve moving about in the bedroom. The door opens and Steve pauses. Stiles doesn’t turn to look; he just _knows_ that a little bit of pink will be crawling up Steve’s neck. 

“Natasha,” he greets evenly as he finally walks into the kitchen, resting a warm hand on Stiles’s back.

“Steve,” she replies neutrally, but her eyes are sparkling with amusement. “Should I offer congratulations?”

Steve shakes his head, but he’s smiling. He presses a quick kiss to Stiles’s jaw before moving to pour himself a glass of juice. He’s dressed for his morning run, so he’ll probably head out soon.

“Are you planning to break me this morning?” Stiles asks. 

Natasha shrugs. “Don’t look so put out. You had a break from it for your birthday.”

“Well, not exactly. I definitely still had a work out.” 

Steve chokes slightly on his juice, giving Stiles a _look_ over the glass. He just grins back, unrepentant. 

“Besides,” he adds. “You can’t beat me up too much. I have to look pretty for my party.”

Steve drops his face into his hand, sighing. Natasha’s eyes narrow and Stiles instantly regrets opening his mouth. So much for putting the super spies to shame.

“Steve.” Natasha guesses, shooting the man in question a look. “What part of ' _surprise party_ ' do you not understand?”

“The 'surprise' part, I’m guessing,” Stiles quips. He quickly shuts his mouth when her gaze turns to him, unimpressed.

Then she sighs, shaking her head slightly. “You need to act surprised,” she tells him. “Thor will be disappointed otherwise.”

Stiles nods quickly. “I’ll be surprised. Definitely surprised. I promise.”

She just sighs again, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘ _surrounded by idiots_ ’. Then she straightens, sets her mug in the sink, and cracks her knuckles as she meets Stiles’s gaze again, one eyebrow arched in challenge.

“We’re working on your flexibility this morning.”

Stiles offers a cheerful smile. “Awesome. Just let me go shower and get changed real quick.”

She does go a little easier on him than she usually would, working him hard but not leaving him as a sore, exhausted wreck. 

When they’re done, she rolls up on her feet, stretching out easily. “I almost forgot,” she says, pointing to a package in the kitchen, tucked in next to the microwave. “Your present. From all of us.”

Stiles looks at her, surprised. 

Steve had given him a framed drawing, one of his own, of them both, and he adores it. He loves the way Steve captures all of the important details, the way it’s more than just a sketch: it’s love and a promise and all of that cheesy nonsense, perfectly framed for Stiles. It’s currently on the nightstand.

But he hadn’t expected a gift from the rest of the team.

He gets to his feet, heading into the kitchen. “I wasn’t expecting gifts,” he tells her, a little wary as he starts unwrapping the box. “And definitely not until the party.”

He lifts the lid and blinks. Inside, nestled in red tissue paper, is a gun. 

Natasha smiles slightly. “I would have given it to you at the party,” she says. “But Bruce informed me that your friends might be unsettled if I gave you a weapon as a gift in front of them.”

“Very considerate. Remind me to thank Bruce.” Stiles carefully lifts the gun out of the box. He has to admit, it’s _beautiful_. Sleek, lightweight, easy to handle. 

“Your own ICER,” Natasha says. “Calibrated specifically for you. Happy birthday.”

Stiles looks up at her. “It’s incredible,” he says. “Thank you.”

He settles the gun back in the box, struggling against the urge to hug her. He likes his spine perfectly intact, after all. Still, he can’t help but reach out, slow enough that she can see his intention before he gives her elbow a quick, gentle squeeze. She eyes his hand but doesn’t throw him to the floor, which is definitely progress.

Still. He just has to try his luck. “Does this mean I can call you Nat?”

“That depends. Would you like to make it to your party with all of your bones in the right place?” 

He grins. “You say the nicest things.”

Rolling her eyes, she steals the jug of juice from the fridge on her way to the door. Stiles, wisely, doesn’t protest, just offers a wave as she leaves. 

He showers and changes, then heads up to the training room with his birthday gift. He spends the afternoon there, shooting targets, and it’s oddly relaxing. The ICER is an absolute dream to work with and he loses time for a while, focusing on aiming at each target, the pull of the trigger and the points that rack up on a screen to his left, part of some competition Clint had JARVIS set up. 

He’s in the middle of examining one of the targets when JARVIS reminds him that he’s supposed to be going out for coffee with Steve soon. 

He clears up and heads back to the suite. He locks the gun away in the safe in the closet and changes into something a little less scruffy than sweatpants. 

He knows the coffee date is Steve’s job in the whole thing, taking Stiles away from the suite so the others can set the party up, but it’s still nice to spend time, just the two of them. In fact, when Steve glances at his watch and says it’s time to head back, he doesn’t actually _want_ to; he wants to stay on the squishy, overstuffed armchair, Steve’s hand on his knee and his voice a low murmur in Stiles’s ear.

But he nods, taking Steve’s hand. They walk back to the tower and Stiles can’t help but feel tense, even though he has Steve at his side and probably a dozen agents trailing them. He’s grateful that Steve had given him the heads up about the party; he’s wound up enough that the slightest surprise would probably send him into a massive freak out. 

When they’re in the elevator, Steve kisses him, slow and deep before he murmurs, “Remember. Act surprised.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

Steve’s laugh tickles his skin as he kisses Stiles again. 

The suite is dark when he opens the door, but when he steps in, the lights snap on, several streamers go flying into the air, and there’s a shout of “SURPRISE!”

Stiles blinks, doing his absolute best to act startled. Then he grins, genuinely excited and pleased, and turns an accusing look on Steve.

“You totally knew about this, didn’t you?”

Amusement slides behind Steve’s eyes. “Yep.”

Judging from the looks on his friends faces, not to mention Clint and Tony’s roll of the eyes, his performance definitely isn’t up to scratch. Thor hasn’t busted him, though, and is grinning, pleased as punch as he moves forward, one meaty hand clapping Stiles on the shoulder as he informs him it was all his idea.

“It’s great, Thor, thanks,” he replies. 

He steps back, though, into the safety of Steve’s body when Thor expresses his wish to try the Midgardian tradition of birthday bumps. 

He does the rounds, hugging his friends, ridiculously happy to see them. There’s gift opening and more hugs as he thanks them, then music and drinks start flowing, and Stiles feels the tension slide away from his body as he throws himself into the party.

He dances with Lydia and Erica for a while, until Boyd captures Erica in his arms and Lydia disappears to fix herself a fresh drink. Stiles heads over to the spread of food in the kitchen, nibbling on a canape that is so good he could eat a hundred.

“Pepper,” he says as she steps into the kitchen. “This food is _incredible_.”

She smiles, pleased. “I told Tony that caviar was the wrong sort of food for this,” she says. “I’m glad you like my catering choice.”

He smiles back. He really likes Pepper. She’s warm and kind, with a cutting wit and a sharp tongue to go with it if needs be. Even though he’s kind of mooching off her and Tony right now, she’s always made him feel welcome at the tower. 

“I’m a little surprised that Tony’s here,” he admits. “I figured a bunch of people half his age partying in his building probably isn’t his kind of thing.”

“Oh, please tell Tony that. His expression when he’s reminded of his age is always so cute.” Pepper replies, biting delicately into a smoked salmon and goats cheese mousse canape. “Besides, he may have matured in a lot of ways, but Tony Stark is still Tony Stark, and he loves a good party.”

He glances over at where Tony seems locked in an intense debate with Lydia. She’s clearly winning, one high heel tapping against the floor, her eyebrow arched in that smug, _oh bless your heart_ expression that means she knows she’s right and is just waiting for the other person to realize it too.

Stiles is pretty sure he’s never seen Tony speechless before, but Lydia manages it. She smiles and turns, hair flipping over her shoulder as she plucks up her glass of champagne and walks away. 

Tony, though, is grinning when he joins them in the kitchen. “Pepper, Pep, we need her. SI needs her. Get the hiring paperwork ready.”

Stiles snorts. “Good luck with that,” he replies. 

Pepper gives him a wink and turns to Tony, listening with a smile as he starts ranting about the mathematical theorems he and Lydia had been arguing about. Stiles leaves them to it, returning to the main room. There’s a spare seat next to Bruce so he claims it, sipping a cocktail Erica had fixed for him. He’s not sure what’s in it, but it’s fruity and potent, with a slight sting as it slides down his throat. Erica’s always been an expert at mixing killer drinks. 

Bruce is quiet, just watching the party going on around him. There’s a string of blue streamer in his hair and Stiles grins.

“You’re not really big on parties, huh?” 

The look Bruce gives him is wry. “I have a bit of a history of property destruction when it comes to parties.”

“Well, if you wanna do a bit of smashing here, go ahead. I mean, it’s Tony’s building and he can afford it, so…”

Bruce laughs at that, shaking his head. “I doubt your guests would appreciate it.”

“You don’t know my friends very well.” He turns slightly towards Bruce. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“About my alter ego?” Bruce guesses, a tired note threading through his voice.

“What? Oh, no, about your theories on anti-electron collisions,” Stiles says. “I’ve read your work. Only understood about half of it, but what I did understand was brilliant.”

Bruce looks at him, surprised. “I thought you were a law student.”

“I am. But I like research, and I get bored easily. Sometimes I go down the rabbit hole on some things. I spent a weekend a few years ago reading through your papers.”

“A weekend,” Bruce repeats.

“I was supposed to be working on a paper for my anthropology class. I got a little distracted. I sort of wrote a response paper to one of your theories instead and totally bombed the class.”

He gives Stiles a long, unfathomable look, then nods slightly. “Okay. What would you like to know?”

He gets lost in the conversation after that. Bruce seems happy enough to answer his questions and when he hits on something that Stiles doesn’t really understand, he gives an in depth explanation, so Stiles can keep up. He’s _brilliant_. 

He startles slightly when Jackson claps him on the shoulder. “Come on, loser. It’s your party.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose, lightly shoving him away. “Sorry,” he says to Bruce.

He just smiles, waving a hand. “Go ahead.”

Stiles gets up, finding Steve. He manages to convince him to dance, smiling as he kisses him. Erica presses another drink into his hand as she passes, and Stiles guzzles it down, a little warm and thirsty from dancing.

He kind of loses time after that. He’s happily tipsy, dancing and laughing and letting Isaac lean against him when the booze hits him a little too hard. There’s cake – which is incredible, and apparently one of Bucky’s creations, though he doesn’t look very happy at the attention he gets when Steve says so – and more dancing, more drinks, and then, suddenly, more hugs and kisses as people start leaving.

When they’re alone, Stiles blinks at Steve. “Did Jane kiss me on the cheek?”

“You caught that, but not Natasha hugging you?” Steve asks, amused.

“Natasha _hugged_ me?”

“Don’t mention it tomorrow. She prefers these things to go completely unacknowledged.”

“Huh,” Stiles manages. He yawns. “Bed?”

“I should clear up.”

Stiles leans closer, kissing him softly. “Bed?” he repeats hopefully.

“I’d take you up on that offer if you weren’t tipsy enough to be currently swaying on your feet,” Steve replies fondly. 

“Mm, consent _is_ sexy,” Stiles agrees, kissing him again. “And you’re sexy.”

“Thank you,” he says mildly. “Come on. You look exhausted.”

Once he’s tucked up in bed, Stiles feels a little guilty about Steve clearing up from the party on his own. But he doesn’t seem annoyed when he finally joins Stiles in bed, just wraps an arm over him, kisses his forehead, and promptly falls asleep. 

Stiles nuzzles his face into Steve’s neck, falling asleep with a blissfully happy smile on his face.

***

He doesn’t wake with a smile. 

He wakes with a groan, a pounding headache, and a dry, sour tasting mouth. The bed is empty next to him, which means Steve’s already gone out on his run, but he’s left a glass of water and some painkillers on the nightstand for Stiles.

He sits up, swallowing the painkillers before guzzling down the whole glass of water. His mouth tastes less gross, but he still feels like death. 

Coffee. He needs coffee.

He manages to climb out of bed; not exactly gracefully, but he doesn’t end up on his face at least. He fumbles for a shirt, one of Steve’s going by the looseness around the shoulders when he puts it on, and his own pajama pants before leaving the bedroom. He’s learned his lesson about sneaky spies.

The kitchen is, thankfully, empty. However, so is the pot Steve keeps the coffee in.

“No,” he whispers. “Oh, come _on_.” He screws the lid back on and rubs the heel of his palms into tired, gritty eyes. “JARVIS? Please tell me there’s coffee in the communal kitchen.”

“I’m afraid Thor and Miss Foster just finished it. I can order for coffee to be delivered shortly.”

“No,” Stiles says, despite how tempted he feels. “That seems…excessive. I’ll just go steal some.”

“Yes,” the AI replies dryly. “I can see how theft is the less excessive option.”

Stiles yawns in response and shuffles out of the suite. He knows better than to try and break in to Bruce’s or Bucky’s suites – he’d rather not cause a big green incident or get a knife in the face for his efforts – and there’s no way he’s desperate enough for coffee to try and make it onto Tony and Pepper’s private floor, which leaves only two options.

“Clint or Natasha,” he says once he’s in the elevator. “Surprise me, JARV.”

He’s dropped off outside Natasha’s suite. For a long moment, he just looks at the door, mind turning over sluggishly. It hadn’t occurred to him until just now that, while he does know how to break into various other locks (something he’d perfected as a teenager, much to his dad’s frustration), he has no clue how to get past _these_ doors. 

“Uh, JARV?” he asks hopefully. After all, the AI has let Natasha unannounced into Steve’s suite plenty of times. 

There’s a very pointed silence, but the door opens a moment later. Stiles gives a thumbs up to one of the cameras outside the suite before stepping into it.

He’s never been inside Natasha’s place before. It’s tastefully decorated, but doesn’t really feel very lived in. The smell of coffee greets him; Natasha must already be up, which means she’ll probably kick his ass for just walking into her suite, but the need for caffeine propels him towards the kitchen anyway.

It’s not Natasha.

Allison turns at the sound of footsteps, looking as startled as Stiles feels when she sees it’s him and not Natasha.

“Uh,” she says. “Hi, Stiles.”

“Hi,” he replies. 

She’s wearing underwear and an off the shoulder black sweater that Stiles recognizes as Natasha’s. 

“Um,” he says.

She shrugs slightly. “Yeah.”

“Hi?”

Allison smiles slightly. “We’ve done that part.”

“Probably,” Stiles agrees. “Still trying to get my brain to work. So. Natasha?”

She just grins, fingers curling around her mug of coffee. “Natasha,” she confirms. 

“Wow.”

“Definitely wow,” Allison replies, smirking slightly now. “You okay there?”

“I should probably go.”

She nods. “Probably.”

“Um. Congratulations? I’m happy for you?”

She beams at him, all bright sunshine and dimples even at such an unholy hour of the morning. “Thank you. I’ll see you later, Stiles.”

He gives a sort of wave in response, still not quite with it as he leaves the suite, sadly sans coffee. He doesn’t try Clint’s suite – who knows what he might find _there_ – but just goes back to Steve’s and drops down, face first, onto the couch.

He’s still there when Steve returns. He doesn’t look up at the sound of footsteps but gives a happy little sigh when Steve’s hand finds his back.

“You okay?” Steve asks, a smile in his voice. “Not too hungover?”

“Steve,” Stiles says. “Last night, I partied with a bunch of superheroes. And this morning I found out one of my best friends slept with _the_ Black Widow. My life is surreal.”

“If it helps, I brought you coffee.”

Stiles rolls over. “Steve Rogers, you are a god amongst men.”

“I think that’s Thor, actually.”

***

Stiles eventually drags himself off the couch in the afternoon to shower, get dressed and head out to meet Scott at _Bertha’s_.

The diner’s been renovated since getting a little bit destroyed. The red plastic booths don’t have stuffing spilling out of them, the front windows aren’t covered in a layer of dust and grime, and the tables don’t have that weird build-up of sticky residue. But the coffee is still terrible, the food is still super greasy, and the regulars lining the counter, slumped over cups of coffee and plates of burgers, are familiar.

Scott looks about as grim as Stiles feels. He’s wearing shades and his shirt is inside out, label poking out underneath his jacket. His hair is a tangled mess, but he manages a smile when Stiles drops into the seat across from him.

“Remind me to never, ever party with superheroes again,” he croaks.

“I told you not to drink Thor’s mead,” Stiles replies. 

“The warning isn’t effective when you’d already drunk two glasses full of it!”

“It was my birthday,” he says with a grin. “Besides, I wasn’t the one who challenged Tony to a drinking contest.”

“He kicked my ass,” Scott grumbles. “He wasn’t even _drunk_ , the bastard. And I lost fifty bucks to him.”

“How?”

“He bet that I couldn’t outpace Bucky,” Scott says. “There were shots, Stiles. It was horrible. Bucky just pounded them back like they were freaking fruit juice and I was almost sick everywhere.”

Stiles blinks. “Oh, Scott.”

The shades lower slightly so Scott can narrow his eyes at him. “What? What’s with that face?”

“Scott, buddy, Bucky _can’t_ get drunk. Steve can’t, either.”

“What.”

Stiles bites back a grin. “Tony played you, Scotty. I can’t believe you fell for that.”

“A _billionaire_ cheated me out of fifty bucks,” Scott groans. “I’m never partying with those guys again. What the fuck.”

“If it helps, Tony paid for all of that very expensive booze you were knocking back, way more than fifty dollars’ worth.”

Scott looks a little mollified. “It does help a little, I guess.”

Stiles smiles, leaning back when Bertha herself flips over the coffee mugs on the table, filling them both full. As usual, she has a cigarette perched between her lips – not lit, she just seems to like chewing the ends – and gives them the barest grunt in acknowledgement before moving to the next table. 

Stiles sighs happily. “I’ve missed this place.”

They split a plate of chilli cheese fries between them. The hot, greasy food seems to perk Scott up a bit, but Stiles has a knot in his gut. He can’t tell Scott about Allison and Natasha – it’s not his place to, after all, and he wouldn’t do that to Allison; plus, why _shouldn’t_ she go have some fun? But he feels like a shitty friend to _not_ tell Scott.

His dilemma is fixed, however, when Scott flicks a fry at him and says, “Stop looking like a kicked puppy. I know about Allison.”

“You do?”

“She, uh, she messaged me this morning. She felt a little weird about it and wanted to talk it out with me. She didn’t want to hurt me.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “That’s good.”

“And I wasn’t,” Scott adds. “Hurt, I mean. It wasn’t a rough break up, so why shouldn’t she move on? Actually, I feel kinda happy for her. Is that weird?”

“No,” Stiles replies, shaking his head. “It’s pretty mature, actually.”

“Huh. Well, go me, I guess.”

Stiles snorts. They finish the fries and Stiles feels a lot more human for having food in his belly. The bitter tar that Bertha calls coffee is always brilliant for curing hangovers, too, as well as stripping paint.

Scott heads out first an hour later. Stiles doesn’t want to head back to the tower just yet; it’s nice, just sitting in _Bertha’s_ , gazing out of the windows at a familiar landscape. He gets another coffee, dosing this one with enough sugar to make a dentist cry, and slurps quietly at it as he watches the bustle of the city outside. 

He’s draining the dregs of it when his phone rings. He glances down at it, instantly recognizes the number, and feels anxiety sting him. 

He answers immediately. “Is Steve okay?”

“Steve’s fine,” Coulson’s tone is as calm as ever, steady and reassuring.

“Then what -.”

“Miss Argent was shot at ten minutes ago.”

The whole world shifts and spins. Stiles curls the fingers of his free hand around the edge of the table, digging in until it hurts, trying to ground himself. 

“Is she…?”

“She’s fine. It was a sniper, but she wasn’t hit, and we’ve evacuated her from her apartment. We’re taking her to a safe house.”

“Give me the address,” Stiles says, getting to his feet, flicking a couple of bills onto the table to cover his second coffee. “I need to see her.”

“We’ve already sent a car for you.”

Stiles spots a black car idling at the curb outside the diner. The driver gestures at him.

“The car’s here,” he says. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Stiles, wait -.”

He hangs up and shoves his phone into his pocket, nearly crashing into someone as he rushes out of the diner. He practically throws himself into the back of the car and it’s moving before he’s even properly inside. He pulls the door fully shut and sits up in the seat, chest heaving. 

Oh god. He knows that Allison can take care of herself, and Coulson had said she was fine, that she hadn’t been shot, but _fuck_. A _sniper_. She so easily could have been, and it would be all Stiles’s fault, he -.

Wait.

For a second, everything seems to go cold and still, rational logic slicing through his panic. The pieces snap together just a few minutes too late.

_She so easily could have been_.

A sniper. They could’ve blown her brains out without anyone stopping it in time. But they hadn’t. They’d let her get away.

It’s a distraction.

No, more than that, it’s a _plan_. A carefully calculated, horribly simple plan. Because Allison was shot at ten minutes before Coulson called him. There’s no way possible that a car could have got to the diner that quickly, but he’d been too caught up in his panic to realize that. 

The car had already been waiting.

They’d known. They’d fucking _known_ that Stiles’s weak point is the people he cares about. It wasn’t just a distraction. They’d known Coulson would call him, would send for him so he could see Allison, and he’d played right into their goddamn hands. He’d thrown himself _willingly_ into their car!

He’s so fucking stupid. 

He’d known that a security detail had followed him on foot to the diner, but he knows better than to hope for a rescue. If they hadn’t been there to stop him getting into an unknown vehicle, then they’d already been taken care of, without Stiles even _noticing_.

Fuck, he really hopes they’re not dead.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, trying not to give away that he’s realized he’s just walked right into a trap. 

There’s two men in the front, both dressed like Coulson’s agents, minus the logo on the uniforms. They both have comms units in their ears and Stiles is willing to bet they’re armed. 

All Stiles has is a knife strapped to his calf. 

He resists the urge to instantly go for it. If he can, he needs to avoid a fight in the cramped space. With nowhere to go, he won’t have much chance against two armed men. Besides, they’re in traffic; he doesn’t want to risk the lives of other drivers if the car swerves or crashes. 

He glances at the door. They’re moving faster than he would like, but if he can throw himself out of the car, roll into the road, he might just have a chance. He moves slow, reaching for the door handle -.

The locks click into place.

Stiles’s gaze snaps up, locking with the driver’s in the rear view mirror. The fucker’s _smiling_.

“Get his phone,” he says to the other guy. “Make sure he doesn’t cause a scene.”

Stiles ducks as the man in the front passenger seat twists, fist swiping for a clean strike to Stiles’s temple. He leans forward, gaze dropping as he reaches for his leg, ready to grab the knife.

That’s his second mistake.

He’s so focused on preparing for a physical fight that he doesn’t notice the other guy’s hand until it’s too late. There’s a sharp sting in his neck, the brief sensation of something cool sliding through his veins, and the dizziness hits him just seconds later.

He bats at the hand near his neck, knocking the needle to the floor, but it’s too late. He focuses, tries his best to keep his eyes open, to _stay awake_ , but darkness is already creeping in around the edges.

His body slides sideways and he hits the cold leather of the seats, eyes falling shut.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for: violence, beating, discussion of torture, guns, death, graphic description of death and violence, and shock.

He wakes up in a spinning room.

Wait.

No.

That doesn’t make sense.

Everything is spinning, but that’s him, not the room. He feels disorientated, unfocused; a headache sears through his skull, throbbing in rhythm with his, surprisingly slow, heartbeat. He feels a little sick, nausea rolling through his gut, and he has to swallow several times to keep bile back. 

He tries to think, squinting his eyes against the harsh light coming from a bare bulb in the ceiling. 

Right.

Allison. Sniper. Car.

Needle.

He remembers. But he needs to think. He needs to _focus_. He needs to get out of…wherever the fuck he is. 

Slowly, he becomes more aware of the rest of his body. He realizes he’s cold. Little tremors wrack through him, but he can’t tell if that’s from the icy temperatures or the lingering effects of whatever sedative they pumped into him. 

Maybe both.

His shoulders ache where his hands are tied behind his back. He’s in a chair, but his ankles haven’t been strapped to the legs. Distantly, he thinks that that’s a good thing, but he isn’t quite sure why.

He wriggles his wrists. Something bites into the skin, tightening slightly as he struggles, so he stops. He takes a deep breath and stares ahead, willing the spinning to stop long enough for him to be able to make out at least some details of the room he’s in.

Slowly, a blank concrete wall swims into focus.

Well.

That’s not helpful.

He rocks forward slightly, testing his restraints again, but he’s too out of it; he overestimates his balance and the chair tips, slamming to the floor. His face is pressed to the ground, cold leeching into his skin, and he groans, blinking sluggishly.

He needs to stay awake. He needs to figure this out, needs to escape -.

Darkness swallows him. 

***

The second time he wakes up, he feels more with it. 

A headache still burns behind his eyes, filling his skull like fire, and he feels a little shaky, a little sleepy. But the spinning has stopped, and his mind feels sharper. He can think more clearly.

Footsteps. 

Icy cold water, splashing over him, and he gasps, spluttering slightly. He starts shivering almost instantly, shaking his head slightly to get the droplets of water out of his face and eyes. Hands grab his shirt and haul the chair back up so he’s upright.

“I was _awake_ ,” he grits out. “You didn’t need to do the wake-up call.”

The guy in front of him looks younger than Stiles. His cheeks are still a little rounded, the beard he’s trying to sport little more than peach fuzz. He’s surprisingly scrawny, but the emptiness in his blue eyes is enough to send a chill through Stiles.

He smiles, shark like. “I know.”

Stiles eyes him for a moment. There are two more men in the room, one next to Stiles and one by the door. They’re both older than the scrawny kid and built like fucking tanks. 

Wonderful.

“I’d ask if you’re the mastermind behind all this,” Stiles tells the kid. “But rich people usually dress a hell of a lot better, so I’m guessing not.”

Those cold eyes narrow and the kid gives a sharp nod. The guy next to Stiles delivers a backhand brutal enough to snap Stiles’s head to the side, blood prickling at his lip. 

“Okay, _ow_ ,” Stiles manages. “No comments on your fashion sense. Got it.”

The man lifts his hand again, but Peach Fuzz shakes his head. The hand reluctantly lowers, and Stiles does his best to ignore the six foot five mountain of a man next to him, instead focusing on the dude that’s clearly in charge.

“My benefactor prefers not to get his hands dirty,” he replies. There’s a twang to his voice. He’s wearing a dirty white tank and fatigues, but the slouch in his posture, his near skeletal frame, the skittishness he can’t quite hide, makes it obvious he’s never been in the army. He gives Stiles a sharp smile. “That’s my job.”

“Uh, yeah, no offence, buddy, but I don’t think you could scrub a freaking floor, let alone _really_ get your hands dirty. Isn’t that what Neanderthal One and Two are for?” He squints at Peach Fuzz. “How _old_ are you, anyway? Where the hell are your parents?”

The smile slides off his face. “Dead.”

“I guess I should have expected that. What good is a bad guy without a dramatic backstory, huh?”

Peach Fuzz closes the space between them, skinny fingers digging into Stiles’s chin. “ _Don’t_ ,” he warns and, oh boy, that is definitely the voice of an unhinged dude. 

Stiles ignores the ache in his jaw and just flicks a glance down. “Jeez, look at those nails. Yeah, you definitely don’t do any dirty work. Did you get a _manicure_?”

He doesn’t see the gun until it’s pressing into his skin. Peach Fuzz digs it into Stiles’s temple, a sneer on his face. His hand trembles slightly. 

Oh, great. A crazy bad guy who has blatantly never handled a gun before. He’s obviously just sat back, taking orders from his benefactor, organizing the real muscle, sending them out to try and get to Stiles. 

He doesn’t know _why_ though.

“Okay,” Stiles breathes out. “Okay. Let’s just all take a second here, alright?”

Neanderthal One shifts next to Stiles, one hand held up in warning. “Don’t do it,” he says sharply. “Boss wouldn’t be pleased.”

Peach Fuzz’s lip curls slightly, but something like fear cuts across his expression before it goes blank again. He lowers the gun, rocking back on his heels to put space between him and Stiles again.

Stiles’s mental map of the hierarchy shifts slightly. The muscle are taking orders from Peach Fuzz for now, but if he does something to go against the benefactor, they’re obviously prepared to take him out if needs be. 

Stiles can maybe use that.

“So, Hydra,” he says. “Did you grow up wanting to be a Nazi, or…?”

“Hydra aren’t _Nazis_ ,” Peach Fuzz spits.

“Jesus Christ, read a fucking history book. There’s a literal living legend that can back it up, if you want. His name’s Steve. Great guy.”

Peach Fuzz pushes a hand roughly through his hair. “Propaganda.”

Stiles can’t help but roll his eyes. 

“Do that again,” Peach Fuzz suggests. “I’ll have Randy here cut your eyes out.”

Stiles rolls his head to look at Neanderthal One. “ _Randy_?” he repeats. “Oh, wow. I’m sorry, buddy, that’s rough.”

Randy digs a meaty thumb into Stiles’s throat, hard enough for him to choke, the pain intense enough to make him dizzy before the hand thankfully pulls away. He takes a moment to breathe, wincing slightly at his sore neck.

“Why Hydra?” he rasps out. 

“My benefactor happened to have the resources I need to help me achieve my goal,” Peach Fuzz replies.

He spins the gun slightly in his hand and Stiles stares, incredulous. Randy has enough sense, at least, to step forward and take the gun, ignoring the infuriated look he gets for his efforts. 

“And that goal is…?”

“To destroy Captain America.”

“Oh. Well, naturally. So, quick question, but how exactly are you gonna do that? I mean, no offence, but you look one skipped meal away from passing out. And, sorry, Randy, but even you beefcakes wouldn’t have a chance against Cap.” 

“That isn’t for you to worry about,” Peach Fuzz snaps. “You’ll be dead before he faces his destiny.”

Stiles bites back the remark he wants to make. If he pushes the guy, he might shut up, and Stiles wants his questions answered. “But why me? If your benefactor has all of that power, why doesn’t he just go after Captain America? Why kidnap me?” He pauses. “Wait. Am I bait? I swear to god, if I’m the damsel in distress in this scenario, I’m gonna pitch a fucking fit.”

“My employer has no interest in Captain America,” Peach Fuzz replies tightly. He’s clearly not happy about it. “But he was willing to help me achieve my goal, in return for me leading his team, helping them to take you so he can achieve _his_ goal.”

“You realize he just went from benefactor to employer in less than five minutes, right?” Stiles points out. He doesn’t add that Peach Fuzz has already given him useful information on who ‘he’ is. “But think about it. Why does he need _you_?”

“I knew how to hem you in. A few false attempts, a few distractions, and then aim for the people you care about. I knew if we played it right, you’d walk right into our trap. And you did!”

“Buddy. Your benefactor is obviously smart. He could organize all of that himself. He didn’t need you.” Stiles almost feels sorry for him, but then he remembers he’s tied to a chair and, yeah, fuck him. “You’re his scapegoat. If it goes wrong, he’ll set you up for the fall. _That’s_ why he got you involved.”

Peach Fuzz blinks. His expression darkens slightly, but he snaps, “It doesn’t fucking matter! You’ll give me what my employer wants, and then I’ll get to kill Captain America. I don’t care what happens after that.”

“Well, I figured as much, what with you being unhinged and all,” Stiles replies. “What does he want?”

“He wants access to the Iron Man armor.”

Stiles blinks.

And then he laughs.

He laughs until he’s almost crying, gasping for breath, and Peach Fuzz looks _furious_ , face bright red, lip twitching slightly. He gives a sharp nod and Randy grabs Stiles’s hair in a painful grip, yanking his head back, one quick punch to his gut enough to silence Stiles. He wheezes for breath, stomach seizing slightly.

“Fuck,” he gasps.

“Something funny?” Peach Fuzz snarls.

“It’s just – it’s just you’re all fucking _idiots_ ,” he manages, one more wheezing laugh strangling out of him. “I got kidnapped by morons.”

Randy jerks on his hair again but doesn’t move to hit him this time. Peach Fuzz’s hands clench into fists, nearly trembling with rage. He’s gonna let loose any second and Stiles wants to see what will happen if he tries to kill him; he’s pretty sure Randy will step in on the benefactor’s behalf, and probably Neanderthal Two, as well, which might just be the distraction needed for Stiles to escape.

“You live in the tower,” Peach Fuzz grits out. “You have access codes.”

Stiles isn’t about to tell them about JARVIS. He doesn’t think for a second that even the mysterious benefactor could do anything to get past Tony’s AI, but he’s still not going to offer any information that could make Tony or the tower vulnerable.

“Access codes,” Steve repeats. “It…doesn’t exactly work that way. And even if I did, why the _fuck_ do you think Tony would give me the codes to his workshop? Do you really think he’d make it so easy for someone to just saunter in and take the armor?”

Peach Fuzz doesn’t even falter. “You know things. Information we could use. You’ll tell us what we need to know, and we will bring the Avengers to their knees. Stark will _beg_ my employer to take the armor.”

Stiles flashes through everything he does know. Pepper. Only an idiot would try and hurt her to get to Tony or his armor. Hell, only an idiot would go after her full stop; she’s more dangerous than she looks. But these guys might try it, might use it as a distraction.

Then there’s Jane and her friend, Darcy. Stiles knows where their latest project is based, where they’re spending most of their time when Jane isn’t with Thor. He has a very strong suspicion that Clint has a family. They could use that as a distraction, too, playing on each of the Avengers’ vulnerabilities, leaving Tony and the tower more open to an attack.

He doesn’t think they would actually stand a chance. Bigger foes have tried it and spectacularly failed. But he can’t give that information. If there’s even the tiniest risk that Pepper, or Jane, or Clint’s family could get hurt because Stiles let slip how to get to them…

He can’t.

“I don’t know anything,” he says. “They don’t tell me anything, just in case I ever end up tied to a chair with some asshole trying to pump me for information. And, hey, would you look at that. Here I am. Tied to a chair with some asshole fucking _kid_ trying to play in the big leagues.”

Peach Fuzz lashes forward, hand going for Stiles’s throat, but a larger hand closes around his wrist, squeezing tightly in warning.

“He’s manipulating you,” Randy snaps. “Deliberately pissing you off. Calm the fuck down, you idiot.”

Sour disappointment sinks into Stiles’s belly. He sighs. “You’re smarter than you look, Randy. That’s annoying.”

Peach Fuzz takes a deep breath, visibly getting a tight hold on his fury. When Randy releases his wrist, he rubs at it, stepping back. His gaze is harder than steel, his smile cruel enough to make Stiles swallow.

“Maybe you’re telling the truth. Maybe you don’t know anything.” His smile widens. “Either way, we’ll find out. We have ways to make you talk. Electricity. Water. Broken bones, pulling your nails out. Your teeth, too, if you’re _really_ stubborn. I’ve done my research and I have to say, I’m excited. There are some really creative, incredibly disgusting things people have done and written about, you know. I’m looking forward to trying some of them.”

Stiles is no stranger to fear, but the terror he feels at those words, the sheer horror that seizes him at the unrestrained _glee_ in Peach Fuzz’s face…for a second, he can’t breathe. His stomach rolls and he fights back the urge to throw up, but he can’t help the tears that prick his eyes.

Peach Fuzz laughs. “Look at that. You’re fucking _terrified_. You can play at being the tough guy all you like, but you’re crying at just the thought of torture, aren’t you?” He leans in, smirking. “Fucking _pussy_.”

Stiles could slam his head forward, break the fucker’s nose before he has chance to pull away again. But all that would get him is a lot of pain courtesy of Randy. He needs to pull back his fear, needs to think rationally. He needs to play this a little safer if he wants to have any chance of getting out of here. 

“Why?” he whispers. “Why do you want to kill Captain America that bad?”

“He’s the reason my parents are dead.”

“What?”

“The battle in New York. My parents took shelter in the nearest building, but the aliens got in. They didn’t have time to _scream_. And Captain goddamn America was _right there_ , on the same fucking street, and he _didn’t fucking save them_.”

Stiles blinks. “Are you…? Holy shit, are you for real? He’s one man! A superhero, sure, but he can’t be in multiple places at once. And for the record? If he _hadn’t_ been there at all, if he hadn’t stopped the invasion…your parents would _still be dead_. He did the best he could. The whole damn team did, you jack off.”

Peach Fuzz lurches forward again and this time, Randy stands in front of Stiles, blocking his path. He shoves roughly at the kid’s shoulders, making him back up.

“Cool it,” he reminds him. 

Peach Fuzz takes a deep breath. He has to roll up onto his toes to peer at Stiles over Randy’s shoulder. “I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he says, a little calmer. “I’ve heard you’re very smart, so I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”

“What happens?” Stiles asks. “If your employer gets what he wants?”

“Then it’s _my_ turn. We have a trail of breadcrumbs ready to lead Captain America here. You’ll be dead and I’ll be long gone before he actually gets here, of course, but he doesn’t know that. The whole building will be rigged to blow the second he steps foot inside it.”

Fucking idiots. Stiles is almost insulted that they’ve managed to get their hands on him, because _this_? This is the fucking plan? Obviously, the benefactor doesn’t give a damn what happens after he gets the information he wants, because otherwise, he’d have told Peach Fuzz just how freaking dumb his plan is. There’s no way Captain America, or _any_ of the Avengers, would just step into hostile territory without doing some recon first.

They literally have Iron Man on their team, a guy who could easily track any bombs and disarm them. It’s…it’s _offensively_ bad.

Fuck 'almost'. Stiles _is_ insulted.

“Think about it,” Peach Fuzz throws over his shoulder on the way to the door. “But not _too_ hard. I’m looking forward to trying out the blowtorch…”

With those lovely words, he leaves, Randy and Neanderthal Two following him. The door shuts with a metallic _clang_ and he listens as the lock clicks into place. 

For a moment, Stiles just breathes, listening. Three sets of footsteps fading into the distance. 

His mind is spinning, catching on the idea of being tortured before rolling right onto the thought of the Avengers getting hurt, of _Steve_ getting hurt, but he needs to focus. He needs to concentrate on getting out.

He pushes all of his fear and panic and anger firmly to the back of his mind. He can unpack it later, let himself have a breakdown when he has the damn freedom to do so, but right now, he needs to be calm. He needs to be determined.

Slowly, he rolls his head as far as he can, checking for any cameras. There aren’t any visible, which is a good sign. The room he’s in is empty except for the chair; it’s small, with chipped concrete walls and a stone floor. It’s cold, too, lit only by the bare lightbulb swinging slightly overhead. No windows and just the one door out.

His hands are restrained behind the back of the chair with zip ties. He’s been learning self-defence, not how to get out of a situation where he’s actually tied up; he hadn’t thought about that.

But this kind of shit is old hat to him. He’d learned how to break out of zip ties when he was fourteen, for fuck’s sake; he’d upgraded to handcuffs a few months later, just to annoy his dad.

He rotates his wrists slightly, curling his hands into fists, his knuckles pressed together. Carefully, he pushes up on his toes, raising his arms as much as he can behind him as he pulls his elbows apart, then snaps his hands down with enough force that the locking mechanism breaks. 

He drops the zip tie to the floor and rolls his aching shoulders slightly as he gets to his feet. He crosses to the door, pressing against it, listening intently for a moment. He’s pretty sure there’s no one guarding the room.

They’ve underestimated him. They obviously have no idea that, even before he met the Avengers, he had certain skills. And they obviously have no idea that he’s been learning to defend himself, because they hadn’t bothered to pat him down at all. He can feel the reassuring weight of the knife still strapped to his calf. 

They’re expecting him to be weak, unprepared, unable to get out or fight back.

He’s _really_ fucking pleased about that.

The door is thick wood. He could try and bust it open, but the risk of injuring himself, not to mention the noise it would create, is too high. Instead, he crouches, examining the lock, and can’t help but grin. It’s an old lock, the same kind his dad used to have on the shed, the one Stiles first learned to pick so he could sneak away some of the booze his dad stored in there.

He slides the knife free from the strap and carefully slides the blade into the lock. Once it’s in as far as it can go, he puts pressure on it, pushing first in one direction, then the other, jimmying it until he hears a click. After that, it’s easy to slide the blade between the door and the jamb’s striker plate, prying open the latch. The bolt slides back out of the door jamb and Stiles gets to his feet, carefully opening the door. 

Outside the room is a narrow corridor that absolutely stinks of damp. It’s lit by a single light bulb, illuminating ugly, old fashioned wallpaper that’s torn in some places and ruined by mould in others. It leads to a set of stairs leading up to a closed door.

It’s not ideal. If there’s someone guarding it from the other side, he’s at a disadvantage. But there’s no other exit, so he adjusts his grip on his knife and creeps out of the room, careful not to make any noise on the concrete floor.

He climbs the stairs, pausing when he can see the crack underneath the door. Light spills out, but there’s no shadow blocking it, which means there’s no one directly on the other side.

He carefully tests the handle. It’s isn’t even locked, the old door hanging slightly wonky in its frame. He winces when the door creaks slightly as it opens, bracing himself to defend himself if he has to as he steps through it.

He’s in a kitchen. It’s an old farmhouse style and it’s obviously been abandoned for a long time; it’s full of dirt and dust, mould crawling up the walls, plants creeping their way through the cracks in the brick. There’s a dead rat by the table. Sunlight streams through the window above the sink, dulled by the thick layer of dust on the glass. There’s no heating, but it’s at least a little warmer than the basement.

Sat at the table, ankles hooked around the legs of the table to avoid any critters scurrying past, is Peach Fuzz. He’s tapping away at a laptop, his back to Stiles. He’s completely oblivious.

Idiot.

Stiles’s feels his offence soar even higher.

There’s the knife in his hand. He could sneak up on Peach Fuzz, make sure he doesn’t make a sound before he goes down.

But.

But he can’t bring himself to _kill_ him. 

Not like this. This isn’t self-defence. It isn’t fighting for his life. It would be him sneaking up on an unarmed person and _murdering_ them.

He can’t do that. The thought makes his stomach turn. 

Besides, the kid can’t be older than eighteen. Stiles feels a burning anger at the thought of anyone trying to kill Steve, wants to completely beat Hydra down once and for all, but this guy is barely an _adult_. He’s unhinged. He needs to be locked up somewhere secure, needs a fuck tonne of therapy, and he needs to stay the hell away from Steve.

But Stiles knows what grief feels like. The unfairness of it all, the raw wound of anger, the need to lash out, to blame it on _someone_ , so the loss doesn’t mean nothing at all. 

Of course, he’s never kidnapped, maimed, or tried to kill someone because of his grief. But Peach Fuzz doesn’t deserve to _die_.

He can knock him out. A quick punch and he probably wouldn’t even make a sound before –

Peach Fuzz turns.

Stiles lurches forward, arms lifting automatically in self-defence, but Peach Fuzz just makes a shrill, startled sound and throws himself back in surprised fear. The chair tips backwards and his head catches the counter as he goes down, knocking him out cold.

Stiles blinks. “Huh.”

Well.

That was easy.

He gives a kick to Peach Fuzz’s ribs, making sure he’s not faking it. When he doesn’t react, Stiles crouches, cautiously checking his pulse. He’s still alive. 

Stiles keeps hold of the knife, listening carefully as he searches Peach Fuzz’s pockets for a phone. When he finds nothing but lint and a stick of gum, he stands and turns to the laptop, hoping desperately that there might be internet connection, so he can send out an SOS.

His hopes are dashed when he sees that not only is there no internet, but there’s absolutely nothing of use on the laptop at all. The idiot had been playing fucking _pinball_ to kill the time.

Stiles gives the prone figure on the floor a dirty look. “Asshole.”

He gives up on the laptop. If he was someone like Tony or, hell, Danny, he’d probably be able to do something absolutely brilliant and complicated with the laptop parts to send out a message, but all he can do is give it an irritated shove on the table.

He turns his attention to the backpack on the floor, yanking the zip open. The first thing he sees is chains. He pulls out two lengths of it, raising his eyebrows as he lets them clink quietly onto the floor. He shoots Peach Fuzz another look. 

“What the hell were you planning on doing with those, you fucking psycho?” he mutters. 

Still. 

Useful.

Very useful.

He uses one piece of chain to quickly tie Peach Fuzz up. If he wakes up, he won’t be able to move anytime soon, but he could still shout. He spots an old, gross looking dishrag by the sink and uses it to make a gag, not feeling the least bit sorry at how nasty the thing is as he shoves it into the guy’s mouth. 

He has to very slowly, very carefully drag him towards the kitchen pantry, not wanting to make too much noise. Once he manages to stuff him into the small space, he closes and locks the door. That way, if any of his muscled friends go into the kitchen, they won’t find Peach Fuzz tied up and immediately know Stiles isn’t in the basement anymore.

He picks up the other piece of chain. It’s short, but it’s heavy; it could make a decent weapon. He curls one end of it around one hand and keeps a steady grip on the knife with his other. 

Carefully, he creeps towards the door to the kitchen, peering through it. He can see the foyer to the house, just as decrepit and musty-smelling as the rest of the building. It looks kind of Victorian in both build and décor. It would be nice if it wasn’t for the C-4 rigged up on the staircase.

Stiles takes a quick mental headcount of how many people he could be up against. Randy and Neanderthal Two, plus the two guys who’d been in the car. At least four, then, but most likely more. All armed and trained. Probably all as beefy as Randy. 

There’s no way he can take them all on.

He needs to get out quickly and quietly, without anyone noticing. It’s his best chance at escape.

He enters the foyer, glancing quickly at the hallway exposed at the top of the stairs to make sure there isn’t anyone up there. When he’s sure the coast is clear, he moves, as quickly as he can, towards the front door.

Movement catches the corner of his eye.

Randy appears in the doorway to the room opposite the kitchen. His gaze instantly snaps to Stiles and he reaches for the gun holstered at his waist. 

Stiles drops the knife so he can get a good grip on the gun before the guy has chance to aim; he twists down, hears the crack of Randy’s trigger finger breaking, then pushes to the right and down, forcing his wrist at a painful angle; his fingers lose their hold on the gun. 

The gun clatters to the floor and Stiles turns slightly, slamming his foot to the back of Randy’s knee. He goes down, hard, and the chain lashes around his neck a second later. Stiles pulls it taut like a garrotte, holding on with all his strength as Randy scrabbles at the metal, desperately trying to get air.

When the larger man starts to lose consciousness, body going lax, Stiles releases the tension in the chain. He wants him incapacitated; he doesn’t want to kill him. A quick strike to the temple has Randy hitting the floor, eyes rolling back into his head. 

Stiles checks his pulse, a little breathless, more from adrenaline than from the brief scuffle. He has no hope of trying to drag someone as heavy as Randy into the closet, so he gives up on the element of surprise and just uses the chain to tie his wrists to the banister. 

He can’t resist giving a flick to the fucker’s forehead. “What kind of moron tries to fire a gun in a building rigged with _explosives_?” he mutters.

He grabs his knife, sliding it back into the strap on his calf, and picks up the gun. He checks the ammunition before heading for the front entrance again. A quick look through the window at the side of the door shows an empty front yard, a crumbling brick wall, and beyond that, the miserable remains of what was probably once a farm. There aren’t any other houses or buildings, or roads; they’re way off the beaten track.

The door isn’t locked; it creaks as he opens it and he holds his breath, listening closely for footsteps. When no one comes running, he slips out and jumps straight off the porch; trying to avoid all the creaky, worn spots or places where the boards are actually broken through would take too long. 

He keeps low and tucked in against the house as he moves, gaze sweeping the dusty landscape for a vehicle, or a road, or any obvious path towards some kind of civilization.

He realizes his mistake a fraction of a second too late.

He’s looking around him instead of in _front_ of him when he turns the corner. Neanderthal Two is stood just a few feet away, puffing away on a cigarette, but it’s too late for Stiles to duck back; he sees Stiles.

It’s only sheer _luck_ that saves his life. Instead of taking the time to aim properly, the guy panics, firing at the sudden flash of movement without really _looking_. The bullet slams into the brick a few feet above Stiles’s head, little chunks raining down on him. 

He’s already moving, though, aim adjusting, and Stiles doesn’t think.

He just reacts.

He aims.

And pulls the trigger.

His ears ring from the volume of the gunshot. It feels the same as when he used to practise shooting with his dad, except it’s also completely different. It isn’t a target he’s hitting. There’s no sense of pride or accomplishment at his perfect aim. There’s no safeguards in place.

It’s just a body hitting the ground. It’s a neat hole in the forehead and the spray of blood from the wound. A few droplets hit Stiles’s face, but he can’t bring himself to flinch, or shut his eyes.

He doesn’t lower the gun. He _can’t_. He’s frozen in place, staring with wide eyes at the man sprawled on the ground. His eyes are open, staring sightlessly at the sky. The bullet wound is grotesque; from this angle, he can see the mess where the bullet exited his skull. There’s blood and brain matter on the ground, dark and sickening and so much worse in real life than in the movies.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, minutes ticking by as he remains frozen, hand trembling around the gun. 

Vaguely, he registers a familiar sound, a mechanical kind of whine, but he doesn’t pull his gaze away from the body until a blur of red and gold forces its way into his line of vision.

He blinks, focusing on Iron Man. His gauntleted hands are raised slightly. Not in surrender. No, like he’s talking someone down.

_Me_ , Stiles thinks a little sluggishly. _Talking_ me _down_.

The faceplate snaps up. “Hey, Bambi. How about you give me the gun, huh?”

Stiles glances at the gun. 

The gun he’d fired.

The gun he’d _killed someone_ with.

It slides out of numb fingers, hitting the ground. Tony swears, starting forward, but the gun doesn’t go off, thankfully, so he stops, releasing a sigh.

“Or that works too, I guess,” he mutters. 

Stiles looks at him again. “C-4,” he manages. “The house. There’s…there’s C-4. In the house.”

“I know,” Tony replies. “It’s fine. We’ve got it. Don’t worry. It’s gonna be fine. Good job, buddy.”

Stiles looks past him at the body, at the blood and the chunks of skull and feels a vicious, horrible bubble of laughter strangle in his throat. _Good job_?

Tony’s face tightens. His gaze stays on Stiles, but he’s clearly talking to someone else when he says, “Yeah, I’ve got him. Someone wanna take over? I’m not so good at this stuff. I’d be better suited to tackling the explosives.”

Bucky rounds the corner. He jerks his chin towards the house. “Go ahead, Stark.”

Iron Man disappears. Bucky takes his place, glancing once at the body near his feet before he turns his attention to Stiles. Whatever he sees on Stiles’s face makes the tightness on his face loosen just slightly, something almost like sympathy but not sliding into his cool gaze.

_Understanding_ , Stiles realizes. It’s not sympathy, it’s understanding.

“Come on,” he says. 

Stiles doesn’t reply but does manage to get his legs moving. He realizes he’s shaking, and his knees feel weak, not quite cooperating like he wants, but he keeps putting one foot in front of the other, following Bucky. 

He loses track of time as they walk; between one blink and the next, he’s inside the Avengers quinjet. His knees give out on him and Bucky places a hand on his shoulder, guiding him carefully into one of the seats. 

“No, I don’t think he’s hurt. Not badly, at least.” He’s talking, but not Stiles. “I think he’s going into shock, though.”

Several minutes tick by, slow and grating. Bucky doesn’t talk, but he’s a reassuring presence. If there’s any surprises, Bucky can handle it. Stiles doesn’t need to think for a while, or act, or do anything but sit there and quietly shake apart, breath seizing in his lungs.

Finally, _finally_ , Steve is there. His cowl is tugged back, exposing his face, and he crouches in front of Stiles.

“Natasha,” he murmurs, holding out a hand.

Natasha hands him a blanket and Steve tucks it around Stiles’s shoulders, trying to help warm him up. He cups Stiles’s jaw, brow furrowing slightly.

“Coulson’s already on his way to pick our prisoners up for transport,” Natasha says. “We can leave soon.” She pauses, mouth ticking up slightly. “He took out three of them, you know.”

Steve’s gaze doesn’t leave Stiles’s face. “I know,” he says quietly.

Stiles focuses on him, trying to force his mind to work properly. “How’d you find me?”

“They were sloppy,” Bucky replies. “Didn’t take much to follow their trail.”

“The kid,” Stiles murmurs to Steve. “He blamed you for his parents death, back during the Chitauri invasion. He was gonna kill you. He’s…he’s messed up. He needs help.”

Steve’s hand slides to the back of Stiles’s neck, squeezing gently. “I’ll tell Coulson.”

“The benefactor,” Stiles adds. “He doesn’t care about you, or what was gonna happen to me in the long run. He wanted information.”

“Stiles,” Steve says softly. “You don’t have to do this just yet.”

“Yes I do, and you know it,” he replies, voice a little harsher than intended. “The sooner I give you what information I have, the sooner you can find him before he tries anything.”

“He’s got a point, Steve,” Clint cuts in carefully.

“He wanted to get access to the Iron Man armour. He knows that Tony keeps it in the tower. He wanted any information I have on the tower, on the security, on anything he could use to make the team, or Tony, vulnerable.”

Steve nods. “Stark,” he says into the comms. “You know of anyone with the kind of wealth and connections to do all this whose also a little too interested in your armor?”

Tony’s voice filters over the quinjet’s interior speakers, a lazy drawl as he says, “Long list, Cap. But I have a hunch on who our guys is.” 

“You go ahead. Get the information you need to make a move.”

“You can’t see me right now, but I’m saluting. See you back at the tower.”

“Coulson’s jet just touched down,” Natasha murmurs.

Steve straightens. “I’ll talk to him. Be ready to take off in ten.”

Stiles leans his head back. He can still feel the blood on his face. He lifts a hand to try and scrub it away, but he only manages to smear it across his skin. His stomach turns, and he rubs harder, desperation crawling over him.

“Here,” Natasha says. “Hold still.”

There’s an antiseptic wipe in her hand and she uses it to gently, carefully clean the blood from Stiles’s face. He stays still, just watching her, gratitude penetrating the fog of shock. He can’t quite get his mouth to work to thank her, but she seems to see it in his face. Her hand finds his cheek, holding for just a moment, a brief second of comfort, before she straightens again.

She disappears into the cockpit and Stiles pulls the blanket tighter around him. Across from him, Clint just gazes at him. He looks tired, more so than just in a physical way.

“They were gonna torture me,” Stiles murmurs.

Clint just nods. “I know.”

“I didn’t.”

One eyebrow arches slightly, questioning.

“Tell them anything,” Stiles clarifies. “About the tower, or the team, or JARVIS or the security protocols, or – or Jane, or your family. I didn’t.”

Clint goes very still. The expression on his face is impossible to read. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, gruff. “Yeah. You did good, Stiles.”

“I pulled the trigger.”

“Yeah,” he replies, even quieter. “Yeah, you did.”

Stiles leans his head back, closes his eyes. 

“I pulled the goddamn trigger.”


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are! the epilogue! thank you so much for reading and giving feedback, I appreciate it so much. I am currently working on the third in the series and I'll be uploading the first chapter soon. I'm also contemplating writing a companion piece with Allison/Natasha, so please let me know if that's something you'd be interested in.
> 
> WARNINGS FOR: please note that this is a heavy chapter; warnings for violence, beating, graphic discussion of torture, guns, weapons, death, graphic description of gunshot wound, death and blood.

He’s taken straight to medical. 

By the time they reach Coulson’s base, the shock has mostly worn off. Stiles just feels tired, and sore, and in desperate need of some sleep. 

The cut on his lip is cleaned a little and they draw some blood to check that the sedative won’t cause any lingering problems. Once he’s given the all clear, he’s handed a pile of clothes and given time to shower.

Stiles spends a while under the water, letting the pressure and steam ease the tension in his aching muscles. He lets the blast of heat scald away the fucking _shittiness_ of the last several hours.

When he steps out of the shower, he feels stronger.

Steve’s waiting in the room. He’s still in his uniform, but the cowl is completely off. He watches Stiles quietly as he dries off and tugs on the borrowed clothes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks finally.

Stiles shakes his head. “Later,” he replies. “Right now, I just really need a hug.”

Steve closes the space between them, pulling him into a hug. Stiles sinks into it, the last, stubborn teeth of tension finally releasing him. In Steve’s careful, tender hold, he expects to break. Instead, he just feels safe.

Eventually, there’s a knock on the door and Stiles reluctantly pulls back. Steve looks at him, blue eyes soft as he searches Stiles’s face. Then he wordlessly gives Stiles’s hand a squeeze before he lets him go.

“When you’re done with Coulson, I’ll be right here, okay?” 

Stiles nods and leaves the room. He gives Bobbi a nod in greeting and she offers a gentle smile in return. She escorts him to a debrief room. It’s about as welcoming as the rest of the base, but there’s a cup of coffee waiting for Stiles.

He sits down, taking a sip, letting the heat and familiar taste comfort him. Across from him, Coulson just watches him. When Stiles meets his gaze, he simply says, “Tell me what happened.”

Stiles does. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t trip over his words. He tells Coulson everything, down to every, ugly detail, and when he’s done, Coulson’s expression doesn’t change. He just nods slightly.

“Why law, Stiles?”

That catches Stiles off guard. “What?”

“I’ve been looking at your file. We have some records from your time in high school, particularly some notes from appointments with a psychologist -.”

“Wow, nice breach of confidentiality there, Coulson.”

“And an employment advisor,” Coulson continues, unperturbed by Stiles’s annoyance. “Growing up, you expressed a desire to be, amongst other things, a police officer, just like your dad.”

“Yeah, and some kids dream of being an astronaut or the king of England when they grow up,” Stiles replies slowly. “What’s your point?”

“Later on, you seemed to switch your paths. You wanted to join the FBI.”

Stiles taps his fingers on the table. “Briefly, yeah.”

“Briefly?” Coulson flicks through the file in front of him. “You seemed pretty focused on it. Started researching the physical and medical requirements, focused on getting your grades up to scratch. In fact, I believe you were offered a summer internship aimed at future recruits, weren’t you?”

“My best friend’s dad pulled some strings,” Stiles replies. “But he was an asshole. I didn’t want him holding a favor over me.”

“Still. When I look at your undergraduate choices…criminology, for example, your focus seems to be very geared towards a career with the FBI. In fact, there’s a record here of you discussing the requirements with your college careers advisor. But then, after graduating, you applied to law school. So,” he closes the file and leans back in his chair. “Why law?”

“I wanted the challenge?” Stiles offers. “I realized I just wasn’t FBI material? I saw a hot lawyer on TV and it inspired me? Any of these working for you?”

Coulson just gives a bland smile and Stiles sighs, leaning back. He takes a drink of coffee, wrinkling his nose slightly. It’s a little too strong and bitter, but the heat and caffeine is comforting.

“The Battle of New York,” he says. “That’s why.”

Coulson tilts his head slightly. “Go on.”

“It opened the whole world’s eyes to just what is going on out there. There are people who, for some reason, have gifts. Maybe they’re born with it. Maybe they’re given the powers. Maybe they just happen as an accident. But they have powers. Some of them become heroes. Some of them are like Steve, or Thor, or Daisy. But some of them are just people who want to live their lives as normally as possible. Yet they’re persecuted. I went into law to help them.”

Coulson nods slightly. “Noble.”

“No. _Anger_.” Stiles replies. “Because the other reason I decided to switch to law was so I can help everyone _else_. Do you know how many people were hurt during the battle, Coulson? How many of them didn’t have insurance, or enough money, to cover their medical bills? Do you know how many people there are out there like my dad who were just trying to help, but because they’re not _superheroes_ , they get ignored after. My dad’s insurance wouldn’t cover a higher quality prosthetic, so he’s left with what he has. There are a hell of a lot of people in the same position. How many people lost their homes, or their business, or their means of financial income because of what happened? How many of them were taken care of in the aftermath? _Too damn few_ , that’s how many. I got into law to represent them. To _help_ them. To…to do something for the people who might not fight the battles themselves but have to deal with the aftermath.”

“Interesting,” Coulson says. He nods again, as if Stiles has just confirmed what he’d already known. “You see, in all of these job aspirations, I see a theme. You want to help people.”

Stiles shrugs. “Well…yeah.”

Coulson smiles. “Good.”

“What is this?” he asks, tired and frustrated. “I thought you wanted to debrief me, not interrogate me about my career choices.”

Coulson just reaches into his pocket, pulling out a leather wallet. He slides it across the table and Stiles takes it, flipping it open. He looks at the SHIELD badge in confusion before glancing back up at Coulson. The director leans forward slightly.

“This isn’t a debriefing, Stiles, or an interrogation. This is me offering you a job.”

**Author's Note:**

> allirica over on tumblr.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [we can be heroes [ART]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18749734) by [GhostInTheBAU](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostInTheBAU/pseuds/GhostInTheBAU)




End file.
